The Golden Age of Love
by CrystallineMaple
Summary: Life, Love, and Death are three immortal beings who go by the names Antonio, Francis, and Gilbert. When Gilbert kills off Francis' mortal lover, Francis is determined to get even. And what better way than to give Gilbert a taste of his own medicine and make him fall in love? But of course, Francis' revenge doesn't go quite as planned... PruCan, Spamano, more.
1. The Circle of Life

_I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'll try to update soon!_

* * *

My name is Death, and someday you're going to have to meet me.

But if that scares you—if that makes you nervous—you can call me Gilbert Beilschmidt, because I like that name a lot better.

I only have two friends. Love, who prefers the name Francis Bonnefoy, and Life, who prefers the name Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Out of us three, I am the only one seen as 'evil'. Life is a beautiful miracle and so is love. But for some reason, people seem to think death is the end. It's not.

Well, it might be. Don't ask me if there's an afterlife or not—I don't know. I only guide souls from the edge of the world we exist in to the edge of the Beyond, where dead people disappear to. You cannot pass into the Beyond if you are not dead, and I'm not technically dead or alive, so I don't know what happens there. Sorry.

Anyway, there is a difficult task waiting for me tonight. At 7:53 this evening, I must visit Cannes, France, and kill a young woman named Jeanne.

This shouldn't be a big deal, but Jeanne is... special.

Not to me. To me, she's just another human. Not famous, not well-known. She's important—everyone is important—but she's not important to _me. _

I started suspecting Francis was fooling around about two years ago, shortly after he began disappearing for long stretches of time and not taking his bow with him. His bow is exactly like that bow you humans believe belongs to Cupid. One shot with one of his gold-tipped arrows sends someone falling down into the unreachable grasps of love.

His weapon is the bow. Mine is the dagger. (Yeah, contrary to belief, I don't normally use a scythe.) Antonio doesn't have a weapon, only a blessing.

What was I saying, though? Oh. Jeanne. Right. I suppose that Francis, Antonio and I are immortal, and Jeanne isn't. She's human. Which is why she has to die—because that's the way it's supposed to go. _Duh_. I believe—though I've no proof—that Francis has fallen for Jeanne.

How's this possible? I mean, it's kind of hard to shoot yourself with a bow, true. But sometimes, very rarely, love can defy love. Sometimes—like, once every hundred years or something—Francis shoots someone with an arrow and they don't fall in love. Sometimes Francis _doesn't _shoot anyone but they _still _fall in love. Maybe that's what happened.

The way I see it, all love is accidental.

But don't tell Francis I said that.

* * *

It's 7:52 when I find Jeanne. She's pretty, with short blonde hair, and she's driving. I understand immediately that Jeanne is to die in a car crash.

Let me be clear about something. When people die, _I _don't kill them. I mean, I do, because I'm Death, but...

Okay, let's talk about Jeanne.

In about forty-five seconds, she's going to die. In a car crash. She's going to die in the car crash because Death (me) is going to come for her. If Death doesn't come for her, if he just lets the car crash happen, she'll probably be in a coma for a few days and then make a slow recovery. But that's not the way it's supposed to be.

It's like... when a kid is born, Antonio gets a sort of feeling of what their life is going to be like, much in the way I know when someone should and shouldn't die.

The only way I can make sure someone is dead for sure is with my dagger.

And sometimes that doesn't work. Francis' arrows can be faulty, and once in a lifetime, my dagger is faulty.

I check my watch. 7:53. In that instant, there's a horribly loud shattering noise in the stretch of road in front of me as Jeanne's car collides with another driver.

Jeanne is the only one who has to die.

There's this weird, confusing moment when the world feels like it's frozen, and that's when I do it. I walk over to Jeanne—her heart is still beating, but her eyes are closed. I stare at her for a moment. Francis fell in love with this girl. And so Love fell in love. How ironic.

Without another thought, I pull out my dagger and slowly press the cold metal against her throat.

* * *

I'm sure this is too much for you to take in. Should I clarify some things?

I don't have to 'hand-kill' everyone like I did with Jeanne. If I had to do that, I wouldn't have time for anything. But I do make personal visits sometimes. It feels like the right thing to do.

Also, I'm fairly personable. I won't kill anyone until it's time. And I can materialize wherever I want whenever I want, so don't even bother trying to run from me.

Lastly, death doesn't hurt. Dying might. But death doesn't.

What's the difference, you ask?

I'll use Jeanne as an example. That car crash might have been painful—I doubt it was, but it might have been—but I can promise you that when my dagger cut into her throat, it didn't hurt a bit.

In some ways, I'm a lot more merciful than Toni or Francis. Everyone knows that giving birth is a pain, and broken hearts are some of the most agonizing things. But I wouldn't know.

As soon as I get home—I know it sounds strange, but I do have a house in Berlin—I take off my boots, rest my dagger in its case, and start boiling water to make homemade hot chocolate. (Like I mentioned, I'm personable. I'm just like a human, except I control death and I'm immortal, okay?)

I relax. I'm done for the night. Done killing. I mean, there are mental affairs to attend to, but I'm done hand-killing for the next few hours. Besides, Francis is probably going rabid by now. I'm sure he knows. I _wonder_ if he knows...

Around nine, as I'm enjoying hot chocolate so hot it scalds my throat, my phone rings, but it's not Francis like I was expecting. It's Antonio.

"Toni. Hey. How's it going?"

"Where are you?" he answers, and I can picture his green eyes filled with worry.

"In Berlin. I'm done for now. Why?"

"Francis is upset. What did you do?"

I sigh, setting my mug next to me. "My job. He fell in love with a human, okay? No matter how you look at things, it isn't my fault."

"I know, but I—Francis is really unhappy. Can't you bring her back?"

"Antonio, _you're _the one who can control life and birth and stuff. It's not my area."

"Don't pin this on me!"

I snort. "What does he want me to do, go to the Beyond or something? Ha-ha, awesome. Not happening. Bye now."

I'm about to hang up when Antonio's panicked voice stops me.

"Gilbert," he says. "I think you should watch your back."

I cough on my hot chocolate. It's just funny. "Francis would never hurt me. I'm sure he's upset, but he knew that Jeanne was human. Besides, love isn't a certain thing."

"Of course Death would say that," Antonio says.

Since I can't sleep—Death and Love and Life don't sleep—I kind of watch the television but not really, drinking the entire pot of hot chocolate. I keep thinking about the conversation I had with Jeanne as I led her to the Beyond.

The path to the Beyond, which can only be walked by me and those who have already died, is not like this world at all. Some people call it the Spirit Trail. Remember, it's an alternate universe, so the laws of space and time that are here don't exist there.

So, Jeanne said she understood that she couldn't be brought back to earth, but asked if I'd deliver a message to Francis Bonnefoy.

"Sure," I said. "But he's Love—he'd get it anyway."

At that point, Jeanne stopped walking and looked at me. We were close to the Beyond, and I could feel it—an uncomfortable ache beginning to spread through my head.

"What do you mean, he's Love?"

"He's like me. Can we go, please? Being close to the Beyond is painful if you're not dead."

Jeanne frowned. "You mean... he's... I mean, he's kind of immortal, like you?"

I nodded. "Right. Now please, hurry along. I'd like to get back home before I miss _The Walking Dead_. Wait, what was it you wanted me to tell Francis?"

The Beyond was so close at that point that I could see the blinding white light coming from the portal leading to it. And without another word, Jeanne raced toward it and flung herself into the gateway of the Beyond. She was crying, and in the places her tears hit the Spirit Trail, little white roses blossomed up from the ground.

Just like that, she was gone.

She left this universe crying.

Even for me, it kind of broke my heart.


	2. Astral Roses

Around midnight, I stop hanging around at home. Some American celebrity just overdosed on drugs, and I'd like to have a chat with them before I personally lead them down the Spirit Trail. Besides, a raging storm is passing through Germany. At first, I try cranking up the volume on the television to block out the rumbling thunder and the drum of the rain, but before long, the power goes out. Since I've no desire to dig out some old candles, changing locations is the second best option.

It's still afternoon in America, and it's overcast but not freezing.

I walk through the street crowds without a second thought. Only people imminently close to death can see me unless I alter myself into my human form. In the human form of Death, I am like a human in every regard except that I cannot die or bleed or really feel pain. Ever. But I only like changing when necessary.

The second I see him, I change my mind. Screw that American celebrity—they can find their own way to the Beyond.

He's smoking a cigarette, leaning against a small city tree, staring up at the skyscrapers dominating the cloudy gray sky.

"Mr. Arthur Kirkland," I say, walking up to him. "Are you ready to go?"

Arthur looks at me. He's got thick eyebrows, blond hair, and an extremely attractive face—one girls probably fawn over. Surprisingly, he shows no emotion, no shock. Instead, he taps his cigarette, letting the ash fall to the sidewalk. "Mind if I finish this first?"

He's got a sense of humor. I like that. "Sure. Light me one?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Death smokes?"

I accept the cigarette. "If you'd like to put it that way."

We are silent for a moment. "So," I say, lazily exhaling a cloud of smoke, "you can see me, and I'm not in human form. You know what that means?"

"I'm going to die," Arthur Kirkland replies, still gazing up at the sky. Rainclouds are moving in. The leaves on the street tree are a blazing autumn red, the branches arching poetically into the heavens. It stands out like bright blood on the dull, dark sky.

"How'd you know who I am?"

"Intuition. You just know," he says back. "I'm not worried. I know I'm young, but it'll be fine, right?"

I glance over at his emotionless face, at the cigarette he's clenching between his index and middle finger. "You've finished your smoke," I comment.

He grins wryly at me. "It would appear so."

Without another word, he falls to the ground. He seemed pleasant and unafraid of death, so as I pull out my dagger, I decide to be kind.

I take his soul before his heart attack does.

* * *

The Spirit Trail looks pretty normal. The further we get from the universe, the stronger the aching in my head becomes. The Beyond headache—one of the only kinds of pain I've ever had to deal with in my long existence.

As the sky begins to lighten to a gray, I look back at Arthur. "We're almost to the Beyond. The portal's ahead, okay?"

After a few more moments of walking, bright white objects come into view, right in front of the blinding portal to the Beyond.

"What are those?" Arthur asks, pointing at the white things.

I take a step closer. Jeanne's tear roses have not only survived on the Spirit Trail, they have blossomed. There are more of them growing. Some kind of substance keeps dripping out of the petals, but I know it's not water because it's glittering and sparkling like thousands of tiny diamonds. It's beautiful.

"White roses!" Arthur says, delighted. "That's very pretty."

"Are you ready to go to the Beyond?" I ask, gently rubbing my forehead. The pain is almost unbearable. Being so close to the portal, yet still being alive...

"Sure, sure. But just a minute, please. What are those flowers?"

"Astral Roses," I say, naming them instantly. I've never seen them before, yes, but it makes sense. The area that surrounds the Spirit Trail is called the Astral Plane. If a soul strays from the Spirit Trail while I am guiding them, they are doomed to roam the restless, malicious Astral Plane for eternity. Stepping off the Spirit Trail before reaching the Beyond is like condemning yourself to Hell, should such a place exist.

"They look like they're made out of frozen glitter," Arthur says. "They look delicate. Like if you touched them, they'd shatter."

I agree with him, bending down to touch one to see if it _does _break, but just before my finger comes in contact with one of the Astral Rose's petals, I hear a noise behind me.

There's a cracking noise, louder than the thunder I heard in the German storm, and a flash so bright that for a second, the blinding light of the portal disappears.

Arthur has thrown himself off the Spirit Trail.

* * *

"Mmm-hmm. Seemed like a levelheaded guy, too..."

"Maybe he had a mental illness."

Antonio called me after I returned from the Spirit Trail, wanting to know if I'd be interested in having dinner with him at his house in Spain. I said sure, and when I told him about Arthur, he wanted to know more. Even though Life and Love cannot run the Spirit Trail, they know about the Beyond and the dangers of the Astral Plane.

"No," I reply, taking a bite of deliciously spicy food. "Mental illnesses and injuries do not transfer to your spirit form. In your spirit form, you are as healthy as possible, with all of your limbs and no scars. You are in the prime of your life! There's only one disease that doesn't go away when you die..." I crinkle my nose.

Antonio frowns. "What's that?"

"Love," I say. "Stupid. So many people don't want to follow me down the Trail because they don't want to leave their loved ones behind."

Antonio takes a bite of his _papas bravas_ and shrugs. "I don't know, then. You say he jumped off the Spirit Trail?"

"Yes! Literally flung himself into the Astral Plane. He's going to be there forever."

"Arthur Kirkland... I don't remember him. You say he was British?"

"Yup. But he was in America when he had his heart attack."

"That's strange," Antonio sighs. "Anyway, mind if I tell you about something else?"

I nod, sipping my beer. "By all means, go on."

"I haven't seen Francis since earlier tonight."

I look out the window. It's about 3:30 in the morning in Spain, I believe. Remember, I don't have to sleep. My days are a lot longer than a human's, because I can use all twenty-four hours. I can't imagine having to sleep for seven or eight hours a day. I have too much to get done for that kind of inactivity. But anyway...

"Earlier tonight? You mean, when—" I pause abruptly. "Why do you think that is?"

"Jeanne, probably. Oh, Gilbert, you shouldn't have."

"I didn't have a choice!" I snap. "What was I supposed to do? If I let people live because of preferences... that just wouldn't make sense!"

"I hate to bring you down, Gil, but maybe it would. At least a little," Antonio says.

I immediately jump on the defensive. "So? You know what people's lives are going to be like and you let _them_ be born! You let murders and liars and dictators appear. You know what'll happen! Don't tell me that you'd do it any differently if you were me."

Antonio looks unsettled but returns to eating.

There is no more serious conversation during dinner. Thankfully, we stick to harmless topics, like movies and architecture.

Around 4:00 AM, I leave to guide more people down the Spirit Trail—more people I want to hand-kill—but when I get to the portal and the Astral Roses, something makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. And it's not the Beyond headache.

I can't pinpoint it. But as soon as those people get through the portal, I'm back on earth, trying to calm down.

Something strange is happening.

I just don't know what.


	3. Bows and Arrows

_I hope you enjoy this chapter! Feel free to review, I'd like to know what you guys think of this story!_

* * *

The next few days are regular. Eat. Guide souls. Francis is still cold-shouldering me. Earlier today, I was in Paris gathering the spirit of a French ambassador, so I stopped by Francis' apartment and knocked on the door. I heard a deadbolt sliding into place and the distinct noise of a piece of furniture scraping across the ground. I got the message. I could have materialized into his room, but there's an unspoken agreement between Antonio, Francis, and me to not do those kinds of things to each other.

"Fine, have it your way," I shouted, then stormed off with Mr. Fancy French Ambassador.

But now I'm back from the Spirit Trail (and it was an exhausting trip because that French guy had a lot of inner rage, most of it directed at me) and resting in Berlin. I'm halfway through an episode of some comedy show when my phone chimes. A text. From Antonio.

_Meet me in Paris in fifteen minutes?_

Antonio wants to meet me in Paris? Okay, fine. Maybe it's about Francis or something. I'll be right back.

* * *

I got another text about five minutes ago, saying to wait outside of Francis' apartment. So that's what I'm doing. I was here a few hours ago, for that ambassador. Maybe Francis has changed his mind about ignoring me. Maybe he's realized that death is inevitable and he shouldn't blame me. As soon as these thoughts jump into my head, the door swings open.

"Gilbert. You came."

"Of course," I say. "So, what's the matter? Where's Antonio?"

Francis ignores my questions. "Come inside. I just baked some red velvet cake. Have a seat."

I sit awkwardly on the plush couch. I hear Francis moving around in the kitchen, and then a delicious aroma hits my nose. Antonio and I can both cook, but not the way Francis can. Not even close. His pastries and bread are treats I haven't been getting much of lately, since he's so hell-bent on ignoring me. He returns a moment later holding two small plates of cake. "Tea? Coffee? Wine?"

"Um, I'll just have some coffee, I guess," I say. My dagger feels heavier in my pocket, as if accusing me of something. _You killed his love, _it seems to say.

"Shut up!" I growl.

Francis turns back around. "What?"

"N-nothing, sorry!" I reply, then curse myself—silently. _I'm talking to knives... this is so not good... _

Francis pours us both coffee. "Cream? Sugar?"

I shake my head. I don't know why we're both acting so cordial all of a sudden. It feels wrong, like speaking formally to a cousin.

"This is delicious," I say, taking a bite of the cake.

"Thank you." He stands up and then returns a moment later with more coffee, along with his golden bow and a quiver of golden arrows.

I remember about twenty years ago, I was out in the Swiss Alps and I met the sweetest couple. I wasn't there to end their lives. I was just in the Alps to ski and have some fun with Francis and Antonio. I learned through a series of odd events throughout the vacation week that the girl was cheating on the guy. I wanted to shoot the guy with one of Francis' arrows to make him fall in love with someone else—someone who'd truly love him back—but Francis refused.

I got mad, stole his bow, and ran off with it. I tried to shoot the guy through the heart the way Francis does to make people fall in love, but the bow was so heavy that I could barely pick it up. I managed to notch an arrow with extreme difficulty, but when I shot, I missed by so much.

It pissed me off because—not to brag—I'm pretty good with archery. I'd put Katniss Everdeen to shame. I'd make Robin Hood cry with envy!

A few years later, I confessed to Francis that I'd tried to use his bow. I thought he'd be mad. He just laughed and said, "I know you are an excellent archer, but only I can shoot the golden bow and make people fall in love. It's like your dagger—it's a power that only you can use."

That's why I'm so wary of that stupid weapon. It's a thing of mass destruction. It's _worse _than mass destruction. That's how careful you should be around love, kids. Take Death's word for it.

I tilt my head to the side, wondering why he's got the bow with him at this moment, and noticing my questioning look, he says, "I have somewhere to be after this."

"Oh, I see."

"So, Gilbert, you're probably wondering why you were called over here so suddenly."

"The thought has crossed my mind," I say, looking vacantly out the window. We must be ten stories up. "I'm also wondering where Antonio is. After all, _he _invited me. In fact, I'm willing to bet that Antonio never sent me those texts. You did. Right?"

He ignores that last bit. "I'd like to talk about Jeanne," he says.

Of course. "Look, Francis, I'm sorry. I really am. But that—I didn't have a choice. She had to die. It... it's life. Death is a part of life. Just talk to Antonio."

"I'm not saying you had a choice," Francis says, "but you could've let her live a bit longer. She was only twenty-five."

"I'm sorry—"

"I don't want your sympathy," Francis says coldly. "I want you to know what I've been through."

"What?" I give a half-laugh, my coffee mug a few inches from my face. "What do you mean?"

With lightning speed, Francis grabs his bow, notches an arrow, and aims.

The coffee mug slips from my hand. I hear glass breaking and feel hot coffee splashing across my hands, though it doesn't hurt.

"Francis," I whisper. I can't move. I can't do anything but feel immense terror. Francis has a powerful weapon in his hand, and it's pointing right at me. No, it won't do me physical damage. _Nothing _can do me _physical _damage. But he might as well be tearing my heart out of my chest. I want to run and scream and throw the rest of my cake in his face. But I'm frozen in fear.

"Long live love," he sneers, his fingers tightening around the bowstring. Then he lets go.

Even before the arrow strikes me, I know Francis won't miss.

Love never misses.

The arrow buries itself in my heart.


	4. Supernova

_When Love, Life, and Death are capitalized, I'm talking about Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert. When they're not, I'm simply talking about the words._

* * *

I feel no pain. Nothing. But I know it has hit me, because I feel a warmth spreading through my being. I look down, and an arrow is buried in my chest. The golden feathers begin dissolving into a fine mist until it's completely gone. Standard.

"You idiot!" I stand up and shout, grabbing both of Francis' shoulders. "Do you know what you've done?" I'm yelling so loudly that Francis winces.

I pull my dagger out and hurl it through the air, aiming for Francis' throat. It bounces harmlessly off his neck, landing on the soft carpet like a foam toy. If I did that to a normal person, their soul would be split from their body with enough force to cause a blackout in New York City for an entire day. But Francis is immortal. Nothing happens.

Francis has recovered his composure and snarls. "Now you'll understand, Death."

I grab my dagger off the ground and storm out of the apartment.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

There is nothing _to_ do anymore except wait. I don't know what kind of love it's going to be. Francis is probably going to be extra cruel and make it a one-sided creepy kind of obsession in which I am the only one doing any loving.

I sit in my house, sprawled across the couch and staring at the ceiling. The television is on, but I'm not paying any attention to it.

I hold my dagger against the side of my neck.

Gathering my breath quickly, I stab down as hard as I can.

Nothing.

My skin is unbreakable—a perk of being immortal. Apparently the only things that can hurt me are golden arrows. Huh.

Wait a second. Remember how I said that sometimes Francis' arrows don't work? Sometimes they go, like, haywire. He did strike me with one, yes. But maybe it doesn't affect immortals. Maybe it can puncture my skin, but it can't do any real damage.

_Please let that be the case! _

A knock on the door startles me, and when I look at the clock perched on my fireplace's mantelpiece, it reads 5:30 PM. I've really been spacing out.

"Coming, coming," I call, standing up, stretching quickly, and hurrying over to the frosted glass door.

"Gil!"

"Antonio!" I exclaim, throwing the door open. "What's up? Whatcha doing in Berlin?"

Antonio pats his pockets, frowning. "Did I leave my phone here the other day, when I stopped by to drop off those spices?"

"Eh?" I scan the living room. "Nope." Something inside me clicks. I understand how Antonio sent me those texts earlier today—it wasn't him at all, just as I thought. "Francis has it."

"How do you know?"

"Well, I..."

Quickly, I run over things in my head. Francis is not going to tell Antonio he shot me, I am absolutely positive. If I had anything to lose, I'd actually bet my life on it. (Ha!) That means the only way Antonio would know about any of this golden arrow crap is if I told him. I'm tempted to do it, just to mar the pretty portrait of Francis, but after giving things a second thought, that might not be the best idea.

If Antonio took my side, it would be Death and Life against Love. We would win since we are the beginning and the end, and he is the mere middle.

As much as I hate love, a world bleak of that emotion would be pretty depressing. Humans need _something _to pass their tedious days.

On the other hand, if Antonio were to take Francis' side, nothing good could come from that, either. They couldn't get rid of me—it's impossible, unless they want a world full of immortal humans (which we've all agreed would be apocalyptic)—but things would get even worse.

"I was over there earlier, and I saw it," I lie.

Antonio grins. "So he's forgiven you? Great!"

"Yeah... um... he said he understood." Lying to happy, smiley Antonio does not feel good.

In fact, it feels pretty corrupt.

* * *

Out of Antonio, Francis, and me, Antonio is the oldest.

I'm sure you've heard the old paradox. 'What came first, the chicken or the egg?'

This isn't like that. The first question I asked Antonio was, "How was I born?" And he couldn't say a stork delivered me or anything, because that isn't true. I wasn't born like that. I'm not human.

Okay, so, Antonio has always been around, logically. Life has always existed as long as consciousness has existed.

Antonio has told me that after many creatures were born, some animal and some human, they could never leave the earth, even if they were injured or sad. He thought this was wrong, so one night he wished for a companion to take things out of their suffering.

At that moment, he says, there was a flash of light above his head in the sky, and fine, glittering dust began to rain from the sky. I was born from the stardust of a supernova. That's the way he likes to say it.

Personally, the story sounds a bit far-fetched to me. It's possible I may have been born from a supernova, but I doubt it happened the way Antonio says it did.

Antonio and I were alone together for a few decades, until humans began to advance a bit more. As they grew closer to each other, Francis was created.

For anyone who has basic knowledge of Greek Mythology, you know that Athena sprang from the head of Zeus. Same with Francis. He was born from the divine dreams of humans.

Don't tell anyone, but when Antonio invites me over for dinner and we drink beer and margaritas and laugh and eat good food... well, sometimes I wonder what it would be like if it were still just him and me. If Francis had never been born. If there were no one around to bake us éclairs and make people fall in love or do stupid stuff.

On occasion, Francis and Antonio team up against me. Whenever there's an outbreak of disease or a war, they always blame me. World War I and II were absolutely miserable, because they spent most of their time in their favored countries, calling me to accuse me of the horrible things I was doing. And it didn't help that my favorite country was Germany (well, earlier, Prussia) and my preferred language German. But it's not my fault. Humans make their own choices. I simply take their spirits from their bodies so they can leave this world. I'm not doing the murdering or making the violence.

That's _you._

It's very upsetting when they do that. For one, Antonio created me—stardust or not—so that I could put people out of their suffering. He told me that over and over before Francis was born. He told me how special I was because I could help him make the world a better place.

As soon as humans created Francis, I never heard Antonio say anything like that to me again. He loves me and I love him in the most platonic way possible. But it's not the same anymore.

And all that was thousands and thousands of years ago. I'm not sure if Antonio even remembers anymore. Occasionally, he'll call me a stupid-ass name like Starry or Supernova, but I don't know if he really remembers or not.

After Francis appeared, I complained to Antonio, "Why am I not special to you anymore? There was already love in the world."

He ruffled my hair and said, "Death, there is family love and friendship love. Some humans love their gods. But I'd never heard of romantic love until Francis came around."

"He is a human creation," I scoffed. "That means he is weak and useless. He will die soon. Humans are always inventing new things."

Needless to say, Francis never disappeared.

What a shame.


	5. First Encounter

_Whoa, I haven't updated in a while. Sorry about that! Enjoy this chapter, and please drop a review if you feel like it!_

* * *

The Astral Roses are still on the Spirit Trail, blossoming and glittering, aggressively white and gorgeous. That weird sparkling stuff is still pouring out of them, and a small stream has already appeared—maybe a kilometer now, if you were to measure using human standards—but every time I set my headache aside and try to follow the brook, it ends up running off the trail and rushing into the Astral Plane. Nope. Not going there.

I'm careful not to touch the stuff, though. Seems like a bad idea.

It's been a few days since Francis shot me. Nothing eventful has happened. I haven't fallen in love yet, and every day, I'm becoming a little more hopeful that the arrows may not work on immortals. Please. 'Cause that'd be so awesome.

So amazingly awesome.

* * *

"The modern-day Shakespeare is going to be born in two hours!" Antonio announces proudly. "Well, kind of."

I grumble, setting down my book and pointing at my coffee mug for more milk. "So?" Just like me, Antonio doesn't have to be there to see every child born (because, also like me, he'd have no time if he did that). Instead, he too has developed a mind frame where he only needs to visit certain people. He can pick. It's kinda cool.

"Don't you want to come with me and see?" he asks excitedly.

"No offense, but I've told you that stuff kind of grosses me out." I take a swig of coffee.

"Yeah, but this girl is going to be from America," Antonio says. "I'm sure there's an ICU nearby. Can't you find _someone _to kill off and come with me? Gil, this is history in the making! Just imagine—in twenty or thirty years' time, we could be back in this very kitchen, reading the paper, when we see her face and—"

"Okay, okay!" I wave a hand, just wanting him to shut up. "I'll come with you to see your miracle child. Quiet. When should we leave?"

"An hour and a half should be good." He smiles, walks over to his cabinet, and pulls out some ingredients. "I might as well cook while we're waiting. Are you hungry?"

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself." Antonio gets out a frying pan and hums quietly to himself, until something occurs to him. "Why haven't you and Francis been talking lately? I thought you said the other day that you two had made up."

I take a disinterested sip of coffee. "When'd I say that?"

"When I came to Berlin and asked if I'd left my phone behind."

"Oh," I say. "Oh, well, I'm not sure."

"You two can't be mad forever."

I close my eyes and sigh loudly so Antonio will quit bothering me.

He doesn't say anything else.

* * *

I'm mad because Antonio made me get dressed to go to the hospital. I'd asked him what was wrong with wearing boxers if we weren't going to be visible to humans, and he said he was going to refuse to go with me unless I actually put on pants. (Another deep sigh from the tragically poor me.)

Anyway, we materialize into some American hospital (we're in Maine, I think? Near the Canadian border?), and Antonio rushes off immediately, leaving me in a half-filled waiting room. The place smells like flowers, which is weird to me, because hospitals usually smell like everything's just been wiped down, boiled, and sanitized heavily. A kid is sitting in one of the chairs, tears running down his face and fogging his glasses. I give him a slight smile until I remember that I'm not in human form, shrug, and keep walking. I know Antonio will take about an hour, so I wander down to the ICU like he suggested.

I flinch.

Not because of the condition some of these people are in. That doesn't bother me. But the fact that someone is about to die and I've barely realized it.

I walk over to the person's bedside and crouch down. "Hi. So, listen. I don't know why I didn't see you here earlier. I'm sorry. You might be in a lot of pain. I'm not sure—but at least you're unconscious. So that's good, right? Well, no matter. I'm going to end your earthly existence. I know you aren't supposed to die for a few more minutes, but you'll like it better wherever you're going, I promise." I take out my dagger, and the second it comes in contact with his throat, a bunch of loud monitors come whirling to life and I hear footsteps approaching rapidly. Someone is clinging to my arm.

I turn, and it's the person who's just died. I mean, his spirit. He sees his dead body on the table, recoils, and sways against me.

"Calm down," I say reassuringly. "It's all right now. How do you feel? What's your name?" Of course I know his name, but it's always better to ask personally.

"Alfred Jones."

"Sounds like you had an accident."

"I was—" he tilts his head. "I was in the car. I must've—dude, what's going on?"

I explain quickly that I'm Death, that he's dead, that everything will be okay, and that he needs to come with me to the Beyond.

"Listen," Alfred says. "I can't. My brother—he's in the waiting room. He's expecting me to be okay, man. Just—just get me back to life."

I snort. "Who do you think you are? Jesus? Sorry, that isn't possible. I can't just go around resurrecting people. Do you think everyone who dies _wants _to die? I know it's difficult, but it's life. You're going to have to come with me."

"Just let me say goodbye," he begs.

I feel bad. "I would, but I can't," I reply. "Humans can't see you anymore."

"Fine. I'll go with you to the Beyond or whatever. But can you please tell my brother that I said I love him?"

I smile sympathetically. "Of course, Mr. Jones."

* * *

When I get back from the Spirit Trail, Antonio still isn't back, so I return to the waiting room to see if I can find Alfred's little brother. Well, "He's my stepbrother," Alfred had said. "His name is Matthew Williams. I don't know if this is possible for you, but please try to actually be _comforting_." I snort and scan the room.

Just as I thought.

It's the kid who was crying earlier. That's Alfred's brother.

He's moved seats and is now sitting by the window, staring outside. It's raining.

I allow myself to be seen and walk over to him.

"Um... Matthew?"

He looks up, wiping a tear from his eye. He's got very striking eyes. They're a kind of violet-blue color that reminds me of someone I met once, but I can't remember who. I smile as 'comfortingly' as I can and sit next to him. "How are you doing?"

"Who are you?" he inquires quietly.

"I heard about your brother," I say as apologetically as I can. Though I feel genuinely bad for Matthew, it's still hard for me to put a lot of compassion into my words, because so many people die every day and you get used to it. I'm not sure if family love is worse than Francis' love. "He said he really loved you, just before he went. Rest easy."

"The nurses," Matthew begins, his voice almost a whisper, "said that he was unconscious before he died. So as much as I appreciate your kindness—though I don't know who you are—I'm afraid what you're saying isn't possible."

"Anything's possible," I insist gently. I pat Matthew's shoulder and then, since I hear Antonio coming down into the hallway, I switch out of human form.

To Matthew, though, it just looks like I've disappeared into thin air.

It doesn't matter. He'll convince himself that he was just daydreaming and was still in shock from hearing the news about his brother. And I?

Well, I'll never have to see Matthew Williams ever again.


	6. Call Me Maybe

Antonio and I are just about to go back to his house in Madrid when he claps his hands suddenly.

"Can we stop in Moscow?"

"Uh, why?" I ask, sipping some of the coffee I purchased in the hospital's café area.

"Things to do!" Antonio chirps. "Well, I'll only be an hour or so. If you don't want to come, you can do whatever you want. I'll see you later!" With that, he disappears, and I shake my head. Antonio is so spontaneously crazy. I'm sure he's in Russia by now, and I just hope he hurries and does whatever he needs to do so I can—

"Excuse me?"

I jump. I'm still in my mortal form—I had to buy that coffee, right?—and Alfred's younger brother is trying to talk to me. I cringe. I thought he was still in the waiting room. I hadn't thought of the fact that he might come down to the hospital's cafeteria, and I'm regretting my little disappearing act.

"Where are your parents?" I ask, tossing my Styrofoam cup into a nearby trash can.

He gestures vaguely toward the hallway leading back to the ICU's waiting room.

"Well I'm really sorry for your loss," I say. I don't know what else to say.

"Thanks," he replies blankly. Shock, probably.

"What's your name?" I say, even though I already know.

He hesitates. Only for a second. "I'm Matthew Williams. And you?"

I shift my weight from foot to foot. "I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"You disappeared," he finally murmurs. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?" I reply. My voice is too harsh and Matthew flinches. "Sorry," I say, lowering my volume, "but I really don't know what you're talking about."

Matthew shakes his head like he can't believe anything. "You're _real._ I had—my mother didn't believe me... she made me get a therapist because of you..."

Now I'm actually confused. "I beg your pardon? What are you saying?"

"I was nine," he begins with a sigh, like he's recounting an old story for the thousandth time. He probably is. "I was with my grandfather in Montreal. We lived in Quebec at the time, but he took me out for my birthday to eat and see a hockey game. I was so excited." Matthew is staring out the window, where a sprinkling of raindrops are beginning to fall. "Anyway," he continues, "we were at this restaurant, and I know it sounds crazy, but the place got held up and my grandfather was shot that day. He died, and I swear—I mean I _swear_—you were there that day." Matthew narrows his eyes. "I saw you. No one believed me."

That must have been seven or eight or nine years ago, and even though my memory is very good, I don't recall the exact date this happened. I do believe Matthew, though. I must have been there to 'hand-kill' his grandfather.

"Tell me who you are," he begs.

I sympathize, and I sympathize deeply. I want to hug Matthew, who doesn't look more than eighteen. Matthew, whose brother just died in a car crash. Who really did see me and got called crazy by everyone. "You must be mistaken," I say, and every word feels wrong. Lying to Matthew feels worse than lying to Antonio. "There's no way I could have been there. I've never been to Montreal." Another lie. "Besides, I'm probably around your age. Wouldn't I have been a kid then?" Lies, lies, lies.

Matthew shakes his head again, his strangely-colored eyes gleaming with tears. "Gilbert, that isn't true. Remember? Right after Alfred passed away, you came and told me he said he loved me. You—he died in his sleep. How would you know? You aren't..."

I feel my chest ache. "I can't tell you," I insist. "Go home. I'm sorry."

"Why did they have to die?" Matthew asks. "Alfred and my grandfather."

"Give me your hand," I demand.

Matthew looks mystified, but holds his arm out. I pull a pen out of the messenger bag I always carry with me when I travel and scrawl my phone number on his palm.

I look at him. "Call me when you're ready." Then, making sure no one else is watching, I take my leave for Berlin.

* * *

A day goes by. Then a week. Then two weeks. I have plenty to keep me busy—avoiding Francis, making sure I'm not falling in love with anyone, making sure Antonio doesn't find out I _might _be falling in love with anyone, and creating my story for Matthew—so when the aforementioned Canadian actually calls, I'm a bit surprised and unawesomely unprepared. "Hello?"

"It's Matthew. Is this Gilbert?"

_Scheißen! _

"Um, I was hoping we could talk about... about the hospital incident," Matthew says.

"Okay," I say. "What do you want to know?"

"Who are you?"

"I already told you," I say. "Gilbert Beilschmidt." Now that the initial shock and surprise of a loved one's death has passed, I see no reason to justify myself to Matthew.

He isn't fooled. "Tell me," he pleads.

Something about the fact that he doesn't believe me—or maybe that he hasn't given up—makes me want to tell him the smallest sliver of the truth. "Fine. Where do you want to meet up?"

If he says _my house, _I will never tell him the full story. If he says _Montreal _or _Quebec _or _the hospital in Maine, _I won't tell him anything important. There is only one correct answer, and if he says it, I make a mental promise to tell him everything.

"Where?" he asks finally, breaking the silence. "Well, you decide."

I smile. I think I like this Matthew Williams.

* * *

I told Matthew to meet me tomorrow at noon in Boston, which is kind of close to where he lives and where there are no bad memories, but he surprised me by telling me he has school. And I remembered he's human and there are all these obstacles I must work around. So we ended up agreeing with Quebec, noon, Saturday. He then asked how he'd know where to find me, and I told him not to worry.

I managed to conclude that Matthew is seventeen, in his last year of school, and moves around a lot. He was born in Canada, and there was some confusing thing he mentioned about a Canadian-American family. He's lived in Quebec, New York, Ontario, small cities in Maine, and a few other places, but I believe he lives in Philadelphia now. His brother went to college in Maine and was driving home for the holidays, which was when he got into the car accident and why he was in a hospital there.

I've decided to tell Matthew that I'm Death. I think he can handle it.

I wonder if he'll believe it.

I glance around my house, which is very quiet. Sometimes I think I want a dog, but I always decide against it.

For the first time in a few weeks, I think about Jeanne. She really kind of reminded me of the first Jeanne d'Arc. The famous one. I actually met her all those years ago.

I stand up. I'm growing restless and, embarrassingly, kind of nervous for Saturday. I decide I'll find some souls, run the Spirit Trail, and maybe chat with Antonio. Anything to subdue the worry building in my chest. I tell myself to calm down.

What's the worst that could happen?


	7. Explanations

Francis is doing this stupid thing where he's suddenly checking in with me twice a day. When he calls me, his voice is laced with fake, honeyed concern, almost masked by his self-created accent. When he texts, he acts like he's worried about me. I swear, I'll never understand what goes on in that man's head.

I'm still mad. Francis and I have never been very close, and we probably would have killed each other (figuratively) a thousand times if Antonio weren't here to keep us calm.

On Saturday, he calls me at 11:42 AM. I've been ignoring him for the past few days, but I'm so nervous about meeting Matthew I actually pick up my phone. Talking to Francis is better than nothing, but I keep a careful eye on the clock resting on the mantelpiece.

"Hello," I spit out.

"What are you doing today?" he asks pleasantly. If you didn't know the whole story, you'd think I was just being mean.

I hesitate. "I'm going to Quebec."

"Christmas is in a week. Aren't you celebrating?"

"I don't celebrate Christmas," I say. This is a lie. I like Christmas. I'm a bit of an agnostic, because who the hell really knows what goes on in the Beyond? If there's a god, I'm certainly not going to contradict that. But if there isn't, it doesn't matter to me. Besides, I was around _before _Christmas or Hanukkah or whatever the popular thing is these days. I mean, Greek gods died out over the centuries, and people really believed in _those. _But it's still a nice season. And I really respect people who can stay faithful to whatever religion they believe in. I always have.

Francis sounds surprised. "Oh? _Pourquoi._..? Why, Death, I've seen you hanging lights outside your house around the holidays and I've seen you—"

I hang up.

I grab my jacket—Canada's kind of a cold place, I believe—and leave for Quebec.

* * *

He's standing outside a little restaurant, and I find him immediately. I know I surprise him, because he jumps when he sees me. "How did you know I was here?"

"Want to get something to eat?" I inquire, gesturing at the building in front of us. It's decorated festively with a wreath hanging on the door. I forgot how quickly the Christmas season always approaches, but it makes me kind of happy.

We sit down at a booth near the back and the waitress hands us two lunch menus. Matthew smiles, but I stare at the wall, my heart beating rapidly. I know I must sound confident, but I don't know if I can do this. If things don't work, I can always kill Matthew, but he's not supposed to die yet, and it isn't good to alter a previously set fate.

I jump back to reality when I feel Matthew gently kicking me under the table. The waitress looks a bit annoyed, and I realize that she's been asking me what I'd like to drink for the past minute.

"Water, please," I say automatically, turning red.

She leaves the table and Matthew sighs. "So, _Gilbert_..."

"Yeah?"

"Who are you actually? It's been two weeks since I met you and I've mostly gathered myself. After Alfred and everything. So tell me." He leans on his elbows with a determined look on his face, like he's not leaving until he gets an answer. I admire that.

But his eyes really bother me. They're a very unique color but they remind me of something—or someone—I can't quite place.

"You keep spacing out," he says gently.

"I'm just busy," I say. "Aren't you?"

He looks startled. "Well yes, but school just got out for break... I told my parents I was visiting my grandmother, who still lives here. That's why they let me leave Philadelphia for a few days. So no, my schedule isn't too packed at the moment. But enough about me. Come on, Gilbert. You have to understand, I need to know."

I take a deep breath.

And I tell him.

* * *

I disclose that it'll sound impossible and that this must stay a secret. He nods, his irregular-hued eyes wide. I talk to him about Death and Life and Love and how I don't have parents, just Antonio, and I was possibly born from a supernova. I tell him about my dagger and the Spirit Trail and how even though I'm Death, I don't know what happens when you die because living people can't go into the Beyond and I'm still alive, even if I'm immortal.

"I'm not sure if I believe you," he says when I'm done. But he isn't screaming and he hasn't run yet, so things are looking okay.

"That's absolutely fine," I say. "I know it's a lot to take in. It'd take someone as awesome as me to get it all at once."

"So you've met every person who has ever died?" Matthew queries in a tone of wonder.

I tell him about hand-killing and how I don't have to guide everyone to the Spirit Trail. I explain it like it's a natural phenomenon, because to me, it is.

Matthew still has that stunned, dazed look, and even when our food shows up, he doesn't touch it. He just quizzes me about a slew of historical figures and whether I met them. The answer is yes to Anne Frank, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Martin Luther King Jr., Beethoven, Mozart, and Albert Einstein. No to Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, and most famous war figures. I don't have much interest in meeting those kinds of people.

"But you chose to 'hand-kill' my grandfather and Alfred? What made them special?"

"Well," I say, taking a bite of my sandwich, "I honestly don't remember your grandfather. I'm sorry. And Alfred... I came to Maine with Antonio—err, Life—because he wanted to meet this little American baby. He said she'd be the 'modern-day Shakespeare.'"

"So they weren't important to you?" Thankfully, Matthew doesn't sound hurt, just puzzled, almost as if he's trying to solve a math problem he's never seen before.

"No," I say quickly. "I have a theory that everyone is important, you know? Not necessarily to me or you or anyone in this city. But to _someone." _

"Like a story," Matthew says. "I read a story like that once. The main character killed herself because she thought no one loved her, when all along, the person she was meant to be with was in another city. So they never met, even though they were supposed to. Just later in life."

I can't stop the snort that escapes my mouth.

Now Matthew actually looks hurt. "Eh? Weren't you talking about your friend Francis and how he's Love? He exists. You can't deny that love isn't real."

"It's real, but it's the worst thing in the world," I press. Then I try to backtrack because hurting Matthew's feelings makes me feel shitty.

And I realize something. Something bad.

I genuinely enjoy Matthew's company. I don't like hurting his feelings. I don't want this conversation to end because Matthew asks such insightful and entertaining questions, and he seems highly intelligent. _I'm _a little disbelieving of the fact that he's only seventeen.

I tell myself that this is just friendship. This is what friendship _is._ I've only met Matthew twice, and it's just a natural friendship that's growing.

Content with that answer, I continue to answer Matthew's brilliant questions—some of which I've never even considered myself. And as I pay my half of the check, Matthew says something about meeting up to talk again whenever it's convenient. I agree to it immediately.

Matthew gives me his phone number, and I find myself saying, "Let's meet tomorrow, if you're still going to be in Quebec."

"Okay," Matthew says. "I'm going back to Philadelphia on Monday, though. Where do you live?"

We take the conversation outside, and I tell him about Berlin and how I can essentially go anywhere in the world at any time.

He still looks a little unconvinced, so I switch out of human form and, in his eyes, I disappear. I don't leave. I just stand there and wait, wanting to see what he'll do.

Matthew looks surprised for a moment, but recovers quickly. He grins and waves. I wave back, even though I know he won't see.

After a second or two, he turns and walks in the other direction, looking less depressed than when I met up with him at noon.

In fact, he looks sort of happy.


	8. The Diamonds, Part I

_I made up the last name DeBroux for Jeanne—because, as you know, she isn't the real 'Jeanne d'Arc' in this story._

* * *

I meet Matthew in Quebec the next day. Same area, different restaurant. It's snowing, and we're momentarily distracted by a little kid running down the sidewalk trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue. His parents run after him, yelling in French.

I push open the door, and Matthew says something about how he isn't too hungry, so we order drinks and wave the waiter away every time he asks if we're ready to order.

Eventually, I just ask for fries so he'll leave us alone. I turn to Matthew. "So, what would you like to talk about today?"

Matthew actually looks somewhat amused. "I can't believe we are going to have another death conversation. I still can't fully believe it."

I laugh, tracing my finger around the condensation of my drink glass. "Are you calling me a liar?"

I'm joking, but Matthew blushes. "No! I just—"

"I was kidding," I interrupt, grinning. "So, tell me a bit about yourself."

"Well, I—" Matthew's phone chimes. "Excuse me for one second." He pulls out his phone, and his case is one of those wallet-phone-case combos. As he's opening it to get out his phone, a picture flutters out of the wallet part.

"Eh?" Matthew says. "Oh, sorry."

"Who's that?" I demand, glancing at the photo.

"Oh, um..." Matthew timidly hands me the picture.

I stare. It's a picture of three people, all friends, their arms over each other's shoulders, smiling. They're standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

I recognize Alfred, which makes sense. There's a girl with darker skin and red ribbons in her hair, a floaty blue dress rippling just above her knees, and then—

My eyes widen. Standing to the left of the girl is a blond with emerald green eyes and strangely thick eyebrows.

Arthur Kirkland.

The guy who damned himself to hell—err, the Astral Plane—was friends with Alfred?

"What was happening in the picture?" I ask.

"Eh?" Matthew's brow furrows, and I know he wonders what's running through my mind. "That was my brother and two of his friends in their senior year of high school. Um, that was almost three years ago, I think. Yeah, because Alfred is a sophomore in college—"

Matthew stops. Remembers what happened to Alfred. Continues. "Sorry. Well, the high school seniors were taking a class trip to Europe that year, and they were in France, as you can see. Anyway, Alfred lost contact with the other two people in the photo—Arthur Kirkland and Michelle Mancham—when they all went off to college, so I can't tell you what happened to them."

_Arthur Kirkland is dead,_ I think. _He died from a heart attack not that long ago._

I do some quick thinking and verify that yes, Michelle is still alive, so at least the picture has one survivor.

"What's the matter?" Matthew asks, reaching for a fry.

I say it's nothing.

Just like yesterday, he asks me wonderful questions. How do I make money if I haven't got a recognized job (I don't steal, I take from dead people who won't mind. And I've been around for so long, I just know how to get by); was I _really_ born from a supernova (maybe); what would happen if I went into the Beyond (I don't know, but it sounds scary and painful and I know it's not physically possible); and a bunch of other really good points that are logical but that I haven't considered that much.

I have to emphasize repeatedly that I am not omnipotent. I do not know what happens to people when they die. I do not know what will happen in the future. Well, okay, I know when and how people are supposed to die, but that isn't the same as knowing everything that is going to happen.

When our time is up, I pay for everything. Since Matthew is going back to Philadelphia tomorrow, I give him my email, too.

I tell him to stay in touch. From the look on his face, I know this will happen. He still looks at me like I'm a ghost or a unicorn.

Or a _ghost unicorn._

Well, that doesn't matter.

I already want to see him again.

* * *

That evening, as I'm sitting on my couch reading with the television on for background noise, I think about Arthur Kirkland.

I remember him jumping off the Spirit Trail.

He and Alfred were _friends_?

I led Alfred safely to the Beyond. He didn't even know that Arthur was dead. He had no clue. And he won't see Arthur ever again. If there is an afterlife, Alfred might spend years wandering around looking for Arthur.

But Arthur isn't there.

I think about what I told Antonio.

_Love is the only disease that transfers into death._

I wonder if Francis knows who Arthur Kirkland is. Maybe Arthur was in love. Maybe that's why he jumped off the Spirit Trail.

The universe is telling me something, because right as I'm thinking that, my phone rings.

It's one of my daily calls from Francis.

"Evening," I say. No venom in my voice. It's totally neutral.

This throws Francis, because he says, "Oh?" I guess he's gotten used to my tone of voice being malicious, or me not answering the phone at all. He sounds pleased, and I do not like that. "Listen," I command. "Do you know anyone named Arthur Kirkland?"

There's a pause, and I'm half expecting Francis to hang up, but he answers. "Yes! Very annoying man, that one was."

"Annoying?" I ask. "Why?"

"Gilbert, you know I am highly annoyed by anyone who falls in love without my arrows or who is immune to them."

I almost say, _You didn't shoot Jeanne and you didn't shoot yourself, but you loved her and I'm pretty sure you can't get over yourself,_ but I don't want to make Francis angry. Not right now.

So instead, I say, "Right. So Arthur was one of those people?"

_"Oui._ He fell in love with a girl named Michelle Mancham. I hadn't shot her either, but she didn't fall in love, so she's okay by me."

Michelle Mancham? The other person in the photo?

"I thought there was only one person a century who fell in love without your help. Or didn't fall in love... _with_ your help. One or two."

"So did I," Francis says, "but I've noticed that number increasing lately." He sounds perplexed. "I don't know if I've told you this, but I call people who fall in love without my arrows or don't fall in love with them—well, I call them Diamonds."

"Diamonds?" I snort skeptically.

"My arrows are made of gold, and diamonds are stronger than gold," Francis says. "Nevertheless, why did you ask about Arthur?"

"No reason," I reply, though I'm not sure if Francis' diamonds-versus-gold statement is true. "Also, Francis?"

"Yes?"

"I'm pretty sure your arrows didn't affect me. So way to go. Still a real asshole move on your part. I guess I'm a Diamond."

Francis finally hangs up.

I set my phone down and run upstairs. After scanning my bookshelves, I find it—a written record I began keeping ages ago. It's filled with the names of every person who defied Love's power—or, as he would say, every Diamond—and I flip through.

Like I said, it's normal to have one or two people per century.

I leaf through the records. Francis helped me keep this record. It's perfectly accurate.

I began recording around 1400, and there was only one Diamond that century.

But since 1900, the numbers have been rising. Rising _a lot_. Since the turn of the twentieth century, there have been a whole bunch Diamonds. An abnormal amount.

It began in 1941. During World War II. Francis shot a girl named Natalya Arlovskaya. She was supposed to fall in love and get married, but she didn't. That's what Francis told me. She ended up dying the next year, in 1942. After that the names just kept piling up.

Jeanne DeBroux—Francis' love. Lili Zwingli. Lovino Vargas. Mei Xiao. Vladimir Lupei. Emil Steilsson. Kiku Honda.

With a shaking hand, I add the name _Arthur Kirkland_ to the list, then close the folder.

I intend to close the book and go back downstairs, but I just sit there with it on my lap, staring out the window and thinking. Before I leave to do a quick run down the Spirit Trail, let me tell you my thoughts:

1) Is Arthur is regretting his decision to go into the Astral Plane?

2) Why there have been so many Diamonds since the 1940s?

3) What is Matthew doing right now?

I need to quit reflecting upon Matthew's life. Do I like his questions? Do I like his presence? Do I like the way he's bravely continuing his life, even with his brother gone?

No, I don't like that. I _admire _that.

Well, I don't know or understand... but I really cannot stop thinking about him.


	9. The Diamonds, Part II

_I apologize if this chapter seems rambling or unnecessary, but it'll tie in at a later point in the story. I suppose you COULD skip this chapter, but it's highly recommended, as you'll probably be extremely confused at later points in the story. Do as you wish._

* * *

Gather 'round. I'm going to tell you a story—well, multiple stories. I'd like to tell you about the Diamonds of the twentieth and twenty-first century.

_Natalya Arlovskaya._

You heard about her. That girl was a piece of work. Francis has ranted about her in detail because of all the work and 'pain' she's caused him. You know what I said earlier. She was the first Diamond of the twentieth century, and I expected her to be the last—or, at least, the second-to-last. Anyway, she was born in 1920 in Belarus, and in 1941, she caught the attention of some high-ranked Russian man, Ivan Braginsky. So Francis saw the opportunity for a nice couple. He shot them both.

Ivan fell in love. Like, _deep _love. I-would-die-for-you love. Literally. Natalya was immune to the arrows and did not return Ivan's affection, but since Ivan had so much power, he demanded her hand in marriage. It was kind of awful. Natalya did not want to get married to Ivan, so three days before the wedding, she hanged herself. Ivan really did love Natalya, and he was very upset. He lived for a few years in utmost sorrow. I do not know what he did in those few years of loneliness he had, but he ended up shooting himself in 1946. I had no desire to watch his pain. I hung back and hand-killed Natalya, but not Ivan. Never met the poor man.

_Lili Zwingli. _

You already know her story. But you may not remember that I told you. Recall the story I mentioned about going to the Swiss Alps with Francis and Antonio, when I tried to shoot Francis' bow. The girl I met who was cheating on her boyfriend was Lili Zwingli. She wasn't, I think, doing it to be malicious. She felt bad. It doesn't make it any better, but there is room for forgiveness. Her boyfriend—at the moment, I don't remember who he was—really did love her. Francis shot them both, just like he shot Natalia and Ivan, but Lili didn't seem to like the poor guy back, hence the cheating. This was in, oh, 1990? Right, because Lili died in 1994.

_Lovino Vargas. _

Lovino was born in 1930, and when he was twenty, he moved to New York. He died in the Mafia. I did not hand-kill him, so I am unsure of the exact details, but I know Antonio was very excited when Lovino was born. Then things got weirder.

Antonio spent a lot of time alone in 1952, which was the year Lovino died. I told him in the beginning of that year, _Lovino is going to die this year. So you can quit obsessing over him, _and he spent the next six months looking for the key to immortality. I know he wanted to find it for Lovino. But it was kind of ridiculous, because as far as Lovino knew, Antonio did not exist.

Antonio denies it now. He denies joining the hunt for immortality because of a human. He won't acknowledge anyone if they talk about Lovino. So I steer clear of that topic.

_Mei Xiao. _

Francis has not said much about her, and she has no grand story, either. She was born in 1970 in Taipei, Taiwan. She fell in love with a guy she wasn't supposed to fall in love with, then died in 1995 when a boat she was on was 'lost at sea.' In truth, she was murdered for an inheritance received from her grandmother.

_Vladimir Lupei. _

Poor Vlad. He was born and left in one of those terrible Romanian orphanages in 1984, back when things were _really _bad. When Vladimir was an adult, Francis felt bad for everything the Romanian had been through, so he decided to give Vladimir the gift of love. But Vladimir didn't fall in love. He spent his late teenage years alone, sad, and (at times) homeless. He ended up getting murdered in 2004 by an insane man who thought Vladimir was a vampire, and therefore 'another form of a demon.'

Vlad was one of my favorite people of all time. I hand-killed him because I knew of the circumstances of his life and I wanted to apologize (even though it wasn't my fault), and while we were walking the Spirit Trail, we had a really good, deep conversation. He didn't seem at all upset about the terrible life he'd received. (I mean, if I had to live in a deprived orphanage for the first half of my life and then get killed at the age of twenty by an insane man, I'd be livid.)

_Emil Steilsson. _

I don't know that much about him, either. I did not hand-kill him, but I know that he was born in 1992 and died in 2010. Francis has never said much about Emil, but I also know that he was born in Iceland and his family moved to Norway when he was twelve, where he was supposed to fall in love. He, as you can guess, did not.

_Kiku Honda. _

Born in 1979. Died in 2001. Never fell in love, even though Francis wanted him to.

You already know about Jeanne and Arthur.

And something terrible occurs to me. Why did I not see it earlier?

These people... these people never make it past thirty. They die in their twenties or their late teen years. It bothers me.

It's 2:30 in the morning, but I call Matthew. Thankfully, it's not too late in the evening where lives. He answers.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Matthew. So, um, I'm sorry to bother you, but is... well, I mean... can you..."

Matthew laughs softly. "What is it, Gilbert?"

"Where are you?"

"Eh? I'm at my grandmother's. In Quebec. I'm going home tomorrow. She let me stay over for the weekend, y'know. Early Christmas celebration or something. I didn't technically lie to my parents when I said I was staying with here, even though I originally came to Canada to see you."

"Right. Great. Anyway." I gather my courage (which is ridiculous, there's no need for me to be worried) and say, "Can you tell me about Michelle and Arthur?"

He isn't expecting this but he complies. "Okay. Well, Arthur is from Britain, and Michelle is from Seychelles, I think. That's right—sometimes she'd come over to see Alfred and we'd have conversations in French. It ticked Al off, but it was funny."

"Was she nice?" I'm glad she isn't dead. It's insane, but it's true.

Matthew sighs fondly. "Oh, very. I'm actually a little sad that contact with her has been severed. She could never believe that Alfred was my stepbrother, though. She said we looked just alike and that it was impossible that we didn't share any blood."

I remember what Alfred told me in the hospital in Maine—_Matthew's my stepbrother_—and I do think it's strange how extraordinarily similar they look. Only their eyes are—were?—different. I do remember that Alfred's were blue, and Matthew's are that strange, dark purplish-navy color. "He was only your stepbrother, Matthew?"

"Yeah! Isn't it crazy. My stepmom, Amelia, and my dad met when I was three and Alfred was five."

"That's nice. Are you still close with your birth mother?"

"Eh...? No, I've never met her. Besides"—his tone of voice becomes confident—"I'm positive Amelia's a better mom anyway. What were we talking about? Oh! Arthur Kirkland, right? He's from Britain, like I said. He stayed in the US for college, though. I think he moved to Washington or California. He was great! He and Al sometimes got in fights, but it was always over stupid things, like if it was better to spell a word with a 'u' or—"

"Matthew—" I want to tell him that Arthur's dead, but he interrupts.

"Arthur was special, you know," Matthew says.

"How so?"

Matthew hesitates. "It's going to sound stupid, okay? But it's true. Arthur could predict the future. I mean, not in detail. He couldn't tell you what you'd be eating for lunch the next day or anything like that. Maybe it wasn't even 'predicting the future.' But he definitely had a sixth sense for things that were going to happen."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that whenever he got a bad feeling about something, something bad _always _happened. Similarly, if he was optimistic about something or someone, it always went well, or the person turned out to be kind. I know it sounds impossible, but it was true."

I feel uneasy. "So if he didn't have a good feeling about something..."

Matthew fills in the blank. "He'd do anything he could to avoid it. His actions would seem strange to us—to regular people, I mean—but in the end, they always made sense and he always escaped a certain pain, whether literal or figurative."

"Seemed strange," I murmur. I wish Matthew a good-night, then call Antonio and ask him if he wants to come over and eat something, maybe even rent a movie. (I am a human, after all. Kind of.) He says he'll be there in a half hour.

While I'm waiting for him, I feel nervous. Sick.

If what Matthew was saying is correct, and Arthur did 'strange' things to avoid bad situations he knew were coming, it makes me wonder what's in the Beyond. Was he trying to get away from something? Did he know pain was coming? Did he know what the Beyond would be like before entering?

This can't be good.


	10. Friendship

On the Tuesday before Christmas, which is on a Saturday this year, I call Matthew and ask him if he would like to meet again, even though we just spoke two days ago. He asks if I'd like to visit his home. I decline—what would his parents think about a stranger showing up out of nowhere?—but he says they're an hour away at a hockey game. It'll be fine if I come over.

I agree and tell him I'll be there in twenty minutes.

I purposely leave my phone on the kitchen table. I don't care about Francis' calls anymore, and if I don't answer my phone, Antonio will just assume I'm on the Spirit Trail. I grab my messenger bag and leave for the United States.

* * *

Matthew lives in a nice apartment near the heart of Philadelphia. He gives me the address, and when he opens the door for me, a huge Australian Sheepdog with ice blue eyes runs up to me, tail wagging.

"Hero!" Matthew calls. "Hi, Gilbert. Sorry. Alfred's—err, _our _dog is very friendly. Come in. How are you?"

I pat Hero's head. "Good, I think. So you got back from Quebec safe and sound, huh?"

"Guess so." Matthew leads me to a living room and we sit down. He still seems to be handling Alfred's death relatively well, and I'm relieved. As he shifts to move a pillow out of his way, the sleeve of his shirt rises up his arm, and I notice a pale, ghastly scar running the length of his wrist.

"Matthew—"

He looks at me with his strange-colored eyes, and I _still _can't place who they remind me of. "What?"

"Did you _cut _yourself?" I don't know why this bothers me so much. I've been around plenty of suicidal people—hello, who do you think I am?—but the thought of a depressed Matthew makes me so uncomfortable that I have to struggle to remain calm.

"I did." He laughs again. "But not in the way you think! When I was nine, I watched this spy movie with Alfred, and as a joke, he told me the government planted a tracker in my wrist. I took a steak knife and tried cutting it out. Of course, nothing was there, but Amelia walked into the kitchen and about died when she saw all the blood everywhere. I had to go to the hospital, but at least I got an interesting story out of it." He smiles slightly, and I can tell that for some strange reason, this is a fond memory for him. Maybe because Alfred was in it. The joy is in remembering the person, not the pain.

"Hey," Matthew prompts. "What are your favorite things?"

"My what?" I ask, snapping out of my thoughts.

He laughs pleasantly. "How shall we become friends if we don't know anything about each other?"

"You want to be friends with _me_?" I demand. "But someday... I mean, not to trouble you, but someday you're going to die—"

Matthew raises an eyebrow. "So just enjoy what's here and what's now. Favorite things?"

"Favorite things?" I repeat. "God, okay. Let me think. Don't laugh?"

"Why would I laugh?"

"Um, um, I like dogs. I like... ugh, this is difficult." No one has ever asked me what I like. I've only ever had Francis and Antonio, who already know everything about me.

"You're German, aren't you?"

I shake my head. "Nope. I'm _Prussian. _Even if that isn't around anymore, I'll always be Prussian. Okay, I'm not technically from any country, but if you asked me to pick my favorite, that'd be it. That's why I like the German language, I guess."

"What language do you speak in your head?" Matthew asks.

"Any? All? I can speak every language. I've always been able to. And whenever a new language comes around, I can speak that, too. But German's my favorite."

Matthew looks amazed. "And I thought being fluent in two languages was annoying. You're on a whole different level, aren't you?"

"Oh? What other language are you fluent in?"

"French, of course."

We have the rest of the conversation in French. Even though it reminds of Francis, I do it to make Matthew happy. I learn that his birthday is July 1st—hey, Canada Day—and he's already sent in applications for a few American colleges, most of them around Philadelphia. He wants to move back to Canada when he's older, though.

He tells me more about his family. Apparently, Amelia is a very nice person, and he's never known anything different. Alfred's grandparents love him like he's their own grandchild. He still has his grandmother on his dad's side—the one who lives in Quebec—but his grandfather on his dad's side was the one who got gunned down. The one I hand-killed. He knows nothing at all about his biological mother.

"So," he says, "you never had to go to school, did you?"

"School?" I shake my head. "Nope."

"Well, I envy and pity you at the same time."

I snort. "Why on earth would I _want _to go to school? I've already seen all the things the world has to offer. I was around when they _discovered_ the stuff you learn about."

Matthew shrugs. "I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way, please, but you seem... I don't know. You seem like a kind of lonely person. At least at school, you can make friends, you know what I mean?"

I sigh. Friends? I've never really had friends, except for Antonio. And I don't think that counts.

"Well," I counter, "it's pretty awesome being me, too."

"How so?" Matthew takes a sip of the hot chocolate he's made for both of us and smiles.

"I mean, have you ever seen the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower? Or caught snowflakes on your tongue in front of the Kremlin? Or messed with the police in New York City with absolutely no fear of being caught? Yes, there is a lot of sadness in my life—the sadness of other people. But it's a pretty fun experience, too."

Matthew laughs. "I like you, Gilbert. You remind me of Alfred."

He is saying this in a normal tone, the way you would say it to your best friend. I know that's all we are. Friends.

I smile back. "Thanks. I like you, too."

* * *

"You're in a good mood today, huh?" Antonio asks, raising his coffee cup to his mouth and blowing steam across the top.

"Hmm?" I set down my own coffee and watch tiny snowflakes drift down from the gray sky. "Oh, I hadn't noticed."

Antonio and I are sitting on a city bench in New York City, taking a break from our lives and enjoying the cheery holiday decorations set up everywhere. We're in human form, so I can feel the bitter cold of the snow, but it makes things feel more realistic.

"Where were you yesterday?" Antonio has a gleam in his emerald eyes.

"Wh—oh. I was in Philadelphia."

"Listen, Gilbert. I know you and Francis have been mad with each other since Jeanne's death, so I've only been able to spend time with both of you one-on-one. Which is fine. But I'm just wondering... um..." Antonio stutters, seemingly embarrassed.

I watch a couple with intertwined hands walk past us, laughing and smiling. "Spit it out, Toni."

"Yes, um, are you in love with someone?"

_"What_?! No! Definitely not! What the hell gave you that idea?!"

Antonio laughs. "Nothing, nothing, Starry. Don't worry."

I lean back against the bench, sighing. "You're crazy."

Antonio knows something has happened. Maybe he doesn't know that Francis shot me, but he knows something changed.

But nothing _has _to change. It's not too late.

Even if the arrows work on immortals, I swear I'll never fall in love.


	11. Rose Water

On Christmas, there's a tiny bottle champagne sitting on my kitchen table. It's so little that it looks like a sample—more of a vial than a bottle, really. The little resealable glass is so beautiful and expensive-looking. Definitely weird.

I'm pretty sure it's from Francis. Even though we had that semi-civil conversation the other day, I can't help feeling suspicious of the champagne. Technically, even if Francis had filled in with drain cleaner and iodine and I drank it all at once, I'd be fine. But I take the champagne (which, mind you, may be perfectly fine) and pour it down my kitchen sink. I get dressed and toss the vial—no other word seems right for it—into my messenger bag.

It's perfect for something I want to try.

I find the closest dying person—some eighty-four-year-old man who seems very kind and peaceful—and bring him down the Spirit Trail. I must admit, the minute we left our universe and he realized that he was young and healthy again was a truly touching moment. Anyway, after making sure he's safe (or maybe not safe, if my hunches about Arthur are correct) in the Beyond, I walk back a few steps and take the empty vial out of my messenger bag.

The Astral Rose water I've been noticing is still everywhere—it's now a creek that runs off the Spirit Trail. Still thin enough to step over with ease, but long. And exquisitely beautiful. It sparkles like glitter and freshly-fallen snow, and it's clearer than the sky on a cloudless day. The white Astral Roses all around it only add to the beauty. I still can't believe this all came from Jeanne's single tear rose mere weeks ago.

I fill the vial with Astral Rose water. I find a marker in my bag and add the words _ROSE WATER _to the side of the bottle. I'm not quite sure why I'm doing this, but some internal voice in my head is telling me to. Am I crazy? Probably. But it's Christmas, and now that I've done this, I'm taking the day off.

* * *

To my immense surprise, the Rose Water survives off the Spirit Trail. I stop by my house and put the vial in the very back of my cabinet, where it's hidden by water glasses and wine bottles and some of Antonio's margarita stuff. I haven't seen Matthew since Tuesday when I went over to his apartment, but I don't ask if he wants to hang out today because I know he's probably spending time with his family. Whereas I am completely alone. I suppose I _could _do something with Antonio, but he hasn't called me yet, which makes me think that he's with Francis. No, thank you.

Any Christmas happiness I had disappears. I'm alone.

Just then, my phone rings. I answer quickly, not even bothering to check who's calling.

"Hey, Gilbert! It's Matthew."

I look over at the clock on my stove. "It's eight in the morning here, so aren't you having a bit of a sleepless night?"

He laughs. He has a nice laugh, quiet and melodious. "It's two AM over in Philly."

"Why are you still awake? Waiting for Santa Claus?" I joke, and he laughs again. "No, but my younger cousins are over here and they are. I told them we could stay up all night if they stay quiet, because they wouldn't shut up earlier. Surprisingly, it's working."

"So you called out of boredom?" I'm highly amused by the thought of Matthew and a few little kids sitting up, awake in the middle of the night, waiting excitedly for all the joys of childhood to come true.

"Oh—actually, no! On Wednesday, the day after I saw you last, I was playing hockey and I fell and hurt my leg. I know it's nothing, but I'm not supposed to do anything too physical until I can get to the doctor's. Anyway, my family is going ice skating today, and since I can't go with them, I was wondering if you'd want to hang out."

"Well, I certainly have nothing better do to. Oh, I didn't mean it like that! Okay, what time? I can meet you in Philadelphia."

He sighs. "I still can't get over the fact that you can just go anywhere you want at any time. No expense. No travel time. Must be convenient. Where was I? Oh, right. Um, I think everyone's leaving at 11:30. So, I think that's in about six-ish hours? Sound good?"

We agree to it—I'm just excited that I'm going to be spending time with someone—and I rack my brain for anything I could do to use up time while I'm waiting for 11:30 to roll around. I don't want to _waste _time, because Christmas is still a nice day, so I end up walking around Berlin in human form, stopping by small-business stores and buying interesting-looking things. While I'm in one of these said stores, my phone rings. Antonio. He greets me with a friendly "Merry Christmas!"

"You too," I reply, grinning. "What's up?"

"I've been spending the day with Francis—I hope that's all right! We can spend New Year's together if you and Francis are still fighting then. Anyway, did you like my gift?"

"Gift?" I ask. "I didn't receive any gifts. But did you like _mine_?" I think about the tomato-patterned margarita shaker I discovered in some Las Vegas mall. _That _was a real find. I stopped in Madrid and dropped it in his mailbox yesterday, on Christmas Eve. I even found wrapping covered with a _¡Feliz Navidad! _design.

"What? I loved yours, of course. Your gifts never disappoint. But you didn't get mine?"

"No...? What was it?"

"Aw, I wanted it to be a surprise. But it was an immunity drink!"

I frown, looking at a row of glittery snowglobes and their prices. "An immunity drink? I have a perfect immune system."

"A love immunity drink! You're saying you didn't get it?"

This makes me freeze. "A... love immunity drink? Um, what did it look like?"

"Champagne! It was in this tiny crystal glass. Please don't be mad at me for going into your house while you were gone. I set it on your kitchen table. You didn't see it?"

My heart drops. "I... I..." I had the chance to drink a damn love immunity concoction and I _poured it down the fucking drain?! _"I threw it out! I thought it was real champagne, and I thought Francis left it for me! You mean to tell me that drink could have possibly saved me from decades of pain?"

Antonio sounds concerned. "It's okay, Gilbert. Calm down."

"Can't you get me any more? I don't know if I'm immune to Francis' arrows, but I'd like an anti-love drink thing just to seal the deal."

"That's the thing, Gil. There _isn't _any more. The stuff was invented in, like, the fourteenth century, and the recipe was passed from certain people around the world. The last person who had possession of the recipe was Ivan Braginsky. But in 1946... remember how he fell in love with that Belarusian woman? He made one last dose of the immunity drink, downed it, burned the recipe, and shot himself. The drink you poured down the drain was the last in the world, because I collected what little of the stuff Ivan left behind after he died."

I shake my head in disbelief. "But he killed himself because Natalya rejected him. Why'd he drink a love potion before shooting himself?"

"To cure his heartbreak."

"Well, isn't there a copy of the recipe anywhere?"

"Owners swear on the pain of death not to copy it, and no one knows how to recreate it yet without side effects like insanity, schizophrenia, or suicidal depression."

"Ah, damn. This sucks. But... hey, how'd you know about all this?"

Antonio becomes quiet. "Well... Francis admitted it to me. Shooting you with his golden arrow, I mean."

"And you're _still _hanging out with him, I see."

"He's my friend, Gil. Look, I know it was wrong of him to shoot you, but there's no reason to—"

"Whatever, Antonio," I say. Then I hang up.


	12. Wants and Wishes

"Merry Christmas!"

"Hi," I say, brushing snowflakes off my jacket.

Matthew grins, offering me something to drink. "You didn't have anything to do today?"

"Nope," I reply. "Today's my one day off." I raise the coffee he's given me. _"Joyeux Noel!"_

He laughs, but it seems half-hearted. When I ask him what's wrong, he smiles weakly and says, "Oh, I'm... I'm fine..."

"You're obviously not," I say. "What's the matter? Does your leg hurt?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, it isn't that. It's just... I don't think you'd really understand."

Even though it's obvious Matthew isn't trying to insult me, I still feel kind of hurt. "I can try! Really! What is it, Matt?"

He hesitates. "Well, it's my first Christmas without Alfred."

_Oh. _I nod slowly, tapping my fingers anxiously against the sofa. "I'm... I'm sorr—"

"No," he interrupts. "It's fine. Really, it is. Please don't worry about it. Why don't we go for a walk?"

"Your leg gonna be okay with that?"

"It'll be fine. I know it isn't seriously hurt. Keeping me off the ice is just a precaution."

"Okay."

Matthew has made it clear that he does not want today to be a sad day. As we walk down the icy, cheery streets of Philadelphia, we talk.

I tell him about the French Revolution, and he tells me about his first day of middle school, which was when he lived in New York for a year. I recount World War I, and he tells me about events from high school. I describe the personalities of the different Chinese dynasties, and he recites a story about the time he and his friends tried to break into a pool to go night swimming and nearly got caught.

To me, his life is fascinating. I always thought I had done so much more than him—than any human—but now I see that in just a tiny fraction of my life, he has collected so many memories and moments that seem mundane to him, but aren't to me. I wonder what it would be like to be grounded in one place, unable to leave without walking or driving or flying. I wonder what it would feel like to know that at any moment, your life could just end.

We stop and get hot chocolate, but instead of sitting down in the coffeehouse, we take our cups outside and keep walking. As he's telling me about what his home in Quebec looked like, I want to kiss him.

I pause, shocked. It's such a simple and human desire, something I would normally never feel the need to do.

"Gilbert?" he prompts, stopping and looking at me.

"I..." I continue walking. "It's nothing."

Along with my strong urge to kiss him, something else is rising up out of my mind.

Matthew's death date.

_No, _I tell myself, forcing the information away. _I don't want to know when that's going to be. _I look over at him, relieved that he's resumed his story. Surely his death day must be very far off. I hope he dies when he's seventy-five, not seventeen. I hope he lives for a long time.

I hope, but there is never a guarantee.

* * *

As the weeks pass, we spend more time together. I even go to school with him once, pretending I am a foreign exchange student from Germany. I have been in schools before, but I have never been treated as a student.

Many times, the teachers reprimand other students for petty things. I have to try hard to keep my mouth shut, to keep myself from yelling out how insignificant and meaningless this all is. And it _is_ pretty pointless, especially if you've seen all the things I have. Not even the smartest teachers here have lived through the Great Depression and the American Revolutionary War and the day when the Mayflower docked, no matter how intelligent and patriotic they think they are.

When Matthew goes to history, I'm fully entertained. The teacher of that class doesn't pay me too much attention because he thinks my English skills aren't great and he doesn't want to embarrass me (ha!), but I'm hanging onto his every word.

"I wonder," I say quietly to Matthew, "does he know how many things he's getting wrong?"

Matthew laughs, setting down his pencil. "Well, why don't you become a history teacher?"

I nod. "Yeah. I totally should. It'll be my second job."

The teacher shuts off the lights for a PowerPoint presentation, and again, it's all I can do to keep from saying anything. God, does every school in the world teach history like this? If so, it's no wonder our world is so flawed.

I look over at Matthew. He's focused on his notes, writing deliberately, occasionally looking up at the board.

I still want to kiss him.

* * *

The only love I've ever experienced—besides platonic love—was a relationship I once had with a German kid, and it was in no way romantic. I was like his older brother, and I'm well aware that family love isn't Francis' doing. He's only in charge of romantic love.

Still, Ludwig was the closest thing to loss I'd ever gone through. He was born in Germany in 1933, and by 1941, both his parents were dead and his relatives wanted nothing to do with him. Antonio was the one who took pity on him first.

I told him it didn't matter. Ludwig was just one kid in a huge war-filled world, so what did it matter?

Of course, I ended up taking care of him. He stayed in my house and I raised him like I imagine any parent would. He grew up and went to a university, then died when he was nineteen. I don't like to admit it, but I was devastated. It was 1952, which was also the year Lovino Vargas died, so Antonio was being moody and withdrawn and I could not talk to him.

And I do not want to go through something like that again. Besides, anyone who's read a book or watched a movie knows love is awful. People kill themselves for love and call it romance. People argue over love. People would go to war over love. Francis shot me because of love.

Though I know all these things, even though I'm trying my best not to let it happen, I am also aware that it is. All this time, I've been trying to convince myself not to fall in love. I've been listing reason after reason not to, but love isn't logical. Love won't listen to death rates. I've been fighting myself, and I have lost.

Even when I go back home to Berlin, I am still thinking about Matthew. I know what I'm doing will be the ultimate betrayal of myself, but I close my eyes.

I close my eyes and wish to be with him.


	13. Misunderstandings

It is mid-January when Matthew tells me he is coming to Berlin. I am very excited and ask why. He says that just the way Alfred's class went to France their senior year, certain people in his class are going to Germany, and it was announced that everyone who went would stay in Berlin. His class isn't coming until May, but I already can't wait. He'll probably be with his school group for most of the trip, but I want to show him around a little.

I'm aware that Matthew coming to Berlin is a big coincidence, but when you think about all the countries and cities and places in this world his school might've decided to go to instead, it feels more like a miracle.

* * *

Even though we don't have birthdays, February 12th is still the day Antonio celebrates his. He calls me and tells me all he really wants this year is for Francis and me to go out to dinner with him—_together, _he adds—and be nice to each other. I agree, but only if Francis doesn't act like a pissy bitch. Antonio tells me I shouldn't be so hard on him, that he doesn't understand why things have always been like this (well, more so now).

"Well, maybe if you got damned to a fragile, mortal love for doing your job, you'd understand," I snap at him. He gets very quiet. I've said the wrong thing, and I'm not stupid, so I apologize quickly and tell Antonio we can meet wherever he wants.

We meet up at a restaurant in Barcelona. It's a really fun night, and because we both love Antonio, Francis and I manage to get along. I mean, we _do _get along—we've never been as close with each other as we have with Antonio, but knowing each other for so long hasn't been all bad—it's just with everything that's been going on, it's difficult. Still, Antonio is pleased, and it's a nice evening.

Until the very end.

We're leaving. Francis and I split the check, wish Antonio a happy birthday, and gather our stuff so we can disappear outside where it's dark and no one will notice. Antonio says he needs to go to Scandinavia. He thanks us for the great dinner and leaves. I'm about to say goodbye to Francis, when suddenly, he looks at me.

"So, are you happy?"

I frown. "Happy with what?"

"The person I chose for you."

"I—" I stare at him. The words are like a slap to the face. "Please don't. Not right now."

"I was really just wondering if anything happened."

I have never understood Francis, and I finally realize that I have never understood Love _or_ love. They cannot be swayed by reason. They act impulsively and they are proud and powerful and sorry and wonderful and for the first time, I get it. Not that this makes things any better.

"Who did you choose for me?" I ask, because there's still a chance.

"A Canadian-American kid named Matthew Williams. He lives in America right now."

"I hate Matthew," I snap, then disappear back to Berlin.

I don't know why I said that. Maybe because I didn't want to give Francis the satisfaction of seeing he'd won. It isn't true. It definitely isn't true.

My heart hurts.

* * *

_Gilbert, can you meet with me today? It's important._

Matthew has sent me an email and the address of a café located near his apartment. I head over, wondering if there's a problem. It's cold outside—way to snowy, too—so we go inside, order some coffee, and sit down in the back.

"What is it?" I finally ask.

"Why did you come?" Matthew says.

I blink, confused. "What do you mean? Because you asked me to."

"You don't have to spend time with me, you know. It was never a requirement. Do you think you need to watch over me because you feel like I need comfort since Alfred died? Is that it?" His tone of voice is bitter, and I'm concerned. He's never spoken like this before. "Matthew, what are you talking about? Did something happen?"

"Are you here because you feel bad for me?" he's whispering now, his breathtaking eyes actually beginning to tear up.

I'm bewildered. "I'm here because I like spending time with you," I say. There's a pain in my chest, even worse than the headache I get on the Spirit Trail. I have no idea what's going on or where this is coming from.

"Your friend came to me last night," Matthew says. "He said his name was Francis. He told me that you said you hated me."

_Fuck. Fuck!_

"That isn't true!" I nearly shout, then lower my voice when several other customers glare at me for a moment. "He's lying," I say at a normal volume. "I can't believe this..."

Matthew is still upset. "I know you told me you knew Love and Life. He said he was Love, and since he controls emotions, he knows exactly what everyone feels. He told me that you've only been hanging out with me because you feel bad for me, and you can't stand me."

"That isn't how it works," I exclaim. "He's lying. That isn't how it works _at all_. And it's not true." I swallow nervously. "I mean, I _said _that to him, but—"

"Oh, so you _told_ him you hate me?" Matthew's pissed off now. I don't know what to do. This is bad. There is no way to explain to Matthew that Francis doesn't control all emotions—in fact, he doesn't _control _emotions at all, he just makes people fall in love—and I can't believe I just admitted to saying I hated him. I didn't mean it.

"No," I say weakly. "I mean, yeah, but... I didn't mean it. I..."

Matthew looks disgusted. "I can't believe I'm so pathetic that Death himself befriended me out of pity. I'm leaving."

"I'm in love with you," I say.

Those violet-blue eyes widen, lose some of their anger. "R-really? Are you being serious?"

I'm part surprised and part sick and part relieved I've just said that, but I continue as confidently as I can: "Yes. That's the truth. I'm sorry if you're mad at me right now, and I know I screwed up. But Francis was lying, because there's no way I could hate you."

Matthew is silent for a moment, processing my words, then his face relaxes into a smile and he laughs. And that laugh is one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard.

"I love you, too, Gilbert."


	14. Into the Woods

_Guys, I apologize for the fact that this chapter features no romance—disappointing, I know!—but I never intended for this story to be completely a love story. There are going to be other things, such as some adventure and drama, if you know what I'm trying to say. Thank you!_

* * *

"Which kind of wine do you want?" I call to Francis, shuffling through bottles in my kitchen cabinets. "Red or white?"

"White," Francis replies from the other room.

I uncork a bottle of Chardonnay, pour two glasses of it, and pause. I see the vial of Rose Water, half hidden behind another wineglass. I listen closely—Francis is still in the living room—so I pull out the Rose Water and tip three-fourths of it into his wine. It sparkles for a moment but then dilutes immediately, and you can't even tell there's anything in the glass besides wine. I carry the glasses into the living room, giving the one with the Rose Water to Francis.

"So, why did you invite me over?" Francis asks, rolling his shoulders and looking at me expectantly.

I look out my window for a second. I know it's raining, but it's too late and dark to see anything except the raindrops illuminated on the windows. "I wanted to ask you if there's any possible way to make me fall out of love. Please. Before anyone gets hurt."

Francis laughs, which pisses me off. "No, Gilbert, I'm sorry. It's too late. Why, did something happen?"

Just earlier today, I confessed my love to Matthew. And received it back. "No," I lie. "But seeing that this is inevitable, I wanted to ask for one last chance to get out of it. Especially because you always seem so ready to meddle in my personal business."

Francis has no reply to this remark. I watch as he takes a sip of wine. He tips his head quizzically. "What is this?"

"Just Chardonnay."

He shrugs and finishes it.

Nothing happens.

After he leaves, I sigh. I knew he wouldn't help me out—I don't even know if he _can_—but it was worth dealing with his presence just so I could test the Rose Water on him, even if it didn't seem to affect him. I pick up the nearly-empty vial and pour a single drop onto my finger. It glitters in the light of the kitchen. I raise my finger to my lips.

It tastes like all the pure things of the world, as strange as that sounds. Vanilla and cinnamon and honey and sugar all at once, but at the same time, not together.

My contentment only lasts for a moment, though—as soon as the drop passes my lips, the world becomes black.

* * *

I wake up.

I have never woken up before. I've never fallen asleep or lost consciousness, so of course I haven't experienced the waking-up part, and I am surprised by how slow and disoriented I feel. My vision is clearing, and I try to access where I am. It's somewhere I haven't been before, which is also shocking.

I look around. I am outside in some kind of woods, but the trees are thinning to my left, and I can tell there is a meadow or a clearing that direction. A river zigzags through the trees. I glance up, and my breath catches in my throat. The sky is absolutely gorgeous. It's definitely nighttime, but the sky is bright and stunning, filled with all different shades of blues and purples. It looks like an artist has painted it, thousands of watercolors bleeding together to form a galaxy. The stars are everywhere, millions of them, more than I have ever seen.

And that's when I know I am no longer in the world of the living.

* * *

This is not possible. This is not supposed to happen.

I am alive, and I should not be here. I need to get back. I need to go home. If I were anywhere in the regular world, I could will myself to go wherever I needed to. I could reach the Spirit Trail. But here, things are not the same. I don't know what to do, so I follow the river through the woods and into the clearing, hoping to find someone. Anyone.

The clearing is a wide, grassy space, surrounded on all sides by the forest. There is a spring from the river in the clearing, and I can see all the stars reflected in it. But you know what I don't see? Anyone else.

I try not to panic and sit down by the spring, admiring the reflection of the stars on the glassy, dark water. As bad of a situation as this is, this place is far more beautiful than anything that has ever existed on Earth. If this is where people go when they die, surely Arthur Kirkland's fears were misled. Is this where the idea of heaven came from?

"Death."

My peace has been broken. I'm startled for a second before looking around. On the other side of the pool, as if materialized from my own thoughts, Arthur Kirkland has emerged from the trees.

I bolt up. Is _this_ the Astral Plane?

"Why are you here? Has the world ended?"

At first I think he's being sarcastic. I work my way around the edge of the spring to stand next to him. "No! Of course not."

His green eyes flicker over my face. "How much time has passed since my death?"

I stare at him. "Arthur, it's only been a couple of months. Today is February 13th."

He scoffs. "That's impossible. Do you know how long I've been wandering in this godforsaken forest? It's been decades. Maybe even a century. You are the first person I have encountered in my time here."

I am starting to realize that time must pass differently here. Must be similar to the Spirit Trail. I also understand now that the true punishment of the Astral Plane is not any of the terrors or demons that Antonio and I have imaged might roam here. Everything is perfect and serene and absolutely gorgeous. But the loneliness, the promise of isolation for eternity, is a very depressing thought. Combine that with the fact that a few months feels like a century, and I wouldn't be too happy, either.

"Why did you throw yourself off the Spirit Trail?" I demand.

Arthur's anger softens a degree. "Couldn't you tell? Couldn't you tell what was going on in there? Terrible things. I felt it." He looks at me hopefully. "Death, now that you are here, I hope you know that there is no way to escape. I have walked all over the Astral Plane, and no matter where you go, you can't get out. The forest just goes on forever. Though the sky is very pretty, the stars never go away. The sun never rises and day never comes." He points at the water. "This pool is the center of the Astral Plane. I always hope to see someone else, but I've accepted that I'm alone. Besides you."

I don't know what to do. I am determined to find a way out of here—if I can get in alive, I bet I can get out alive—but I just nod.

"Well?" Arthur asks. "Aren't you going to tell me about my loved ones?"

"Oh," I say passively, waiting for him to elaborate. He rattles off a few names of some British people—most of whom I've never met, but I know they're alive—but only when he asks about Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams do I waver.

"Oh, um... Matthew is doing well." Matthew! I feel a pain in my chest. I hope he isn't too worried about me. If time passes as slowly here as Arthur says it does, how much time is going to go by for Matthew before he sees me again? I don't want him to think I'm ignoring him, but unless I can find my way out of here—

"What about Alfred?" Arthur asks, jolting me back to reality.

I feel my heart stop. "Alfred... no, I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know who that is."

Arthur sits down and dangles his feet in the pool, causing a few ripples to disrupt the crystal-like surface. "Oh, that's good. So he's doing fine then."

The pain in my chest doubles. Guilt. I sit next to him, moving so I can put my feet in the spring, too, but they hit the water like it's glass. "What the hell?"

Arthur's feet are submerged under the starry water; completely normal. Mine won't go under. The spring is like ice—hard and solid. Arthur looks perplexed. "Oh! Why can't you go into the water?"

I stand up. "Hold on," I murmur, experimentally placing my foot against the water. Just like the ground, it holds my weight.

"It's because you're alive," Arthur gasps. "Bloody hell."

I realize something else, too. Far down, deep in the pool, I can see city lights. Barely distinguishable from the reflection of all the stars, yes, but very much there. I pace slowly to the center of the pool, walking on the water. It doesn't even ripple under my feet.

When I reach the very center of the spring—Arthur is staring at me, still sitting on the bank with his feet in the water—I look down.

I suddenly catch on. The city at the bottom of the water isn't actually at the bottom of the water. It's _beneath _the water. Because this isn't a pool.

It's an exit.

"Oh my God," I whisper. The Beyond is _below _the Astral Plane. The city I see faintly must be a city of the Beyond. The super-clear stars on the surface of the spring, which I had first thought were the reflections of the stars in the heavens above the Astral Plane, are actually the ones in the nighttime sky of the Beyond. And if I can get to the Beyond, maybe I can get back to the Spirit Trail. Maybe I will be able to go home.

This is the way to escape.

"Arthur," I call. "I found out how to leave the Astral Plane! We can go to the Beyond—"

"I don't want to go," Arthur says, stepping out of the water and staring at me defiantly. "I'll stay here."

"Arthur, please." I don't want to leave him behind. How awful, to be completely isolated for thousands of millenniums.

"No."

I tap my cheek anxiously, biting my lip. I am a terrible person, I know, but I say: "Alfred is dead and he's in the Beyond, waiting for you."

Arthur flinches like I've struck him. "Well, I can't walk on the water. What do you want me to do?"

"Don't worry," I say. I take a deep breath, then stomp on the spring as hard as I can.

The surface of the water fractures like a sheet of glass, splitting into millions of tiny crystalline pieces. I barely have time to yell out to Arthur before the entire spring has shattered beneath my feet, shards of water or glass or whatever alternate dimension material that made up the water falling down, down, down.

And I am falling, too, surrounded by fragments of glittering things, plummeting through the night sky and down to the city lights of the Beyond.


	15. Russian Memories

I land in water—_real_ water—and pull myself out of it, quickly looking around for Arthur. He's a few meters away, lying on the ground and but stirring. I look up. The sky is just as wonderful and star-filled as the Astral Plane's sky was, but I can't _see _the Astral Plane itself. That makes sense—people in the Beyond probably have no knowledge of the Astral Plane, and vice versa—and I hurry over to Arthur. "You all right?"

I know, I know: he's dead, but still.

"I'm fine," he says, standing up. "That was so weird. So... this is the Beyond?"

"Yeah," I say, scanning our surroundings. We're standing on the banks of a river (though, like I said, a real river) that winds through a wide, grassy field and appears to be within walking distance of a city. How long of a walk exactly, I don't know, but I can see the tall buildings and bright lights on the horizon.

"You said Alfred is dead," Arthur says, beginning to walk along the river toward the city.

"I'm sorry," I reply, matching his stride. "He is."

Arthur stares at the ground. "You know, when I first met you, I thought you were pretty decent. But the more you do, the less I think that." He increases his pace.

I don't try to catch up.

* * *

Finally, we reach the outskirts of the city. Just like the Astral Plane, it is always night here. Not that I mind—the night is so gorgeous, and the stars provide more than enough light—but I do find myself wishing to see the first sun rays of the day breaking over the horizon. Some things we just get so accustomed to.

The first sign that things are wrong is the guards that have been placed systematically around the city, as well as the high wall that surrounds it on all sides. Forty feet tall, made of solid, dark gray concrete, topped with barbed wire.

Arthur and I duck behind a couple of abandoned storehouses that are just by the perimeter of the wall. "What the hell's that?" Arthur whispers in Russian.

I stare at him, completely shocked. "You... you speak Russian?"

Arthur looks alarmed. "What? No! No, I can't. Not at all, not even a bit. I mean..."

"Well, you're speaking it now. Say something in English."

"I—I can't!" he says in Russian, looking panicked. "Why is this happening? You're speaking in Russian, too! And I can understand everything you're saying!"

"You don't even have a British accent," I comment. "You sound St. Petersburg born and bred."

Something very odd is going on. Still, since nothing seems to be _physically _wrong with Arthur, I focus on the wall. "What's the point of having armed guards around the city when everyone's already dead?" I look over at Arthur. "You can't get hurt, can you? I mean, that fall from the Astral Plane clearly didn't affect you."

Sadness fills Arthur's eyes. "No. On the... what did you call it? The Astral Plane? I would snap branches of the trees and try to stab myself in the throat with them, because I thought if I could die again, maybe I would be able to leave. Nothing ever happened, though."

I'm confused. Souls cannot get hurt, can they?

On the high wall that surrounds the city, giant white writings have been painted in clear block lettering.

_1900 _– _2000  
__Повстанцы_

"Rebels?" Arthur asks, squinting at the Cyrillic writing.

"Yeah," I say, still confused. What the hell is this place? "Should we just walk up to the entrance?"

"Okay." Arthur shrugs and we begin making our way across the expanse of brick between the empty storage areas and the guards blocking the main entrance through the wall. One of them shouts something and waves his gun at us. I don't even flinch, knowing such a thing could never hurt me. My refusal to look even the slightest bit concerned must deter him, because he lets Arthur and me come within shouting range of him.

"Hello," I call out. "What is this place?"

The guard doesn't lower his guard completely, but he doesn't look overly hostile. And, just as I expected, the guard speaks in Russian. "You are in the twentieth-century ISF. Where did you come from?"

"Why can I understand him?" Arthur hisses, still speaking in Russian, unable to switch back to the language he's known and used since he was born.

"What's an ISF?" I shout.

The guard stares at me like I am incompetent. "Independent Sovereign Faction. I will ask one more time: Where are you from? Why are you here?"

"I need to get into the city."

He loads his gun, tired of me not answering his question, I guess. "No, this area is closed to foreigners. Please leave immediately."

I pause. "Foreigners? Where are you from?"

"The twentieth-century ISF."

"No, I mean... are you Russian?"

He stares at me for a moment, his blue eyes hard and unforgiving, but under that mask of hostility, curiosity glitters like starlight. "I do not understand you."

I stare back at the man, focusing. Nothing is the same in the Beyond, but at least I do still have my ability to read people. This man is named Berwald Oxenstierna. He is, apparently, Swedish. He was born in Stockholm in 1978 and died in 1999.

I decide to try speaking in Swedish. I ask him to let us pass, but he just looks confused. I cannot access anything more about him, so I give up. It's clear he isn't going to let us into the city, so I try to find a way to get in. I glance around. He and that one other guard about a hundred feet away are the only guards in sight, but I bet they're one call away from reinforcements. Still, if I'm very fast...

"Arthur, listen. I've got an idea," I say in English. He can still understand it, even if he can only reply to me in Russian, and it's quite clear that English sounds meaningless to Berwald. "I want you to walk away. Act like you're leaving. I'll keep arguing with this guard here. In the meantime, I want you to go to that other guard and take him out. Can you do that?"

He nods and begins to walk away, back toward the big storage buildings. I switch back to Russian, arguing idly with Berwald, watching Arthur out of the corner of my eye. He's twenty feet away. Fifty. Seventy. Then he starts to sprint toward the other guard, his footfalls loud against the gray brick beneath our shoes. "Hey!" Berwald screams, reaching for his gun, but I lunge forward and punch him in the jaw. He falls backward and reaches for my leg, tripping me, and we're both on the ground, wrestling and fighting. He punches me square in the face, and I laugh. It doesn't hurt. I roll over and grab his gun, loading a bullet into the chamber.

It occurs to me that Berwald can feel pain. His nose is bleeding, whereas I am unscathed. He jolts back, holding up both his hands. "Don't. Don't shoot."

I raise the gun. I'm not planning to shoot him, of course. That would be pointless. But I glance back. Arthur has taken out the other guard. Apparently, we both have huge advantages by seeming invincible to the people here. But they're all dead. How can they feel pain and bleed when Arthur doesn't?

It doesn't matter, though. Having overpowered our guards, we're on our way into the city.

Past the guards, there is a brick walkway encompassed on all four sides with dense gray cinder. It goes on for about five hundred feet, and I can't understand why there aren't more guards around. It doesn't make any sense. Every thirty feet or so is a tiny glass window, but they've all been blacked out. I feel my skin prickling with unease, and Arthur looks pale.

We reach the end of the brick tunnel. A simple set of double doors stands between us and this so-called ISF of the Beyond.

Arthur and I pause and exchange a glance. I can't help wondering how I'm going to explain all this to Antonio and Matthew. Matthew. I wonder idly how much time has passed back home, whether Matthew has tried to call me. Whether he's angry with me for ignoring him the day after confessing my love to him. I need to hurry if I want to get back.

Arthur nods, and I take a deep breath and push the door open. A blast of frigid wind and snow hits me in the face, and I'm startled. Outside the city wasn't warm, but there wasn't any snow on the ground.

I hurry through the door, then, shocked, come to a stop so quickly Arthur runs into me and curses.

"Why did you stop?" Arthur demands in awe, gazing around our surroundings.

We're in a city square, full of activity as people rush by. The ground is blanketed in snow, and a cold wind tears through the land. My unease turns to terror and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. This place looks like somewhere I have been many times before. The memories are rising to the surface, memories I've tried my hardest not to touch on in a few decades.

This city is an exact copy of Moscow during World War II.


	16. Language Barriers

_Sorry for not writing in a while! This chapter is kind of long, but I'm thinking of lengthening them from now on. I hope that's all right!  
_

* * *

It's obvious Arthur doesn't recognize this city. He shouldn't, anyway. It's decades before his time. Still, though... I feel extremely unsettled. Something is wrong.

_Breathe in, Death. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down. You're fine. It's fine._

"Wait here," I tell Arthur. Seeing he looks a little cold, I pull off my jacket at throw it at him. I know he can't technically freeze, but I still feel really bad about him having to find out about Alfred like that. He nods his thanks and agreement, pulling on my jacket. I scan the crowd. Everyone, of course, is beautiful and strong-looking, and everyone also appears to be around the age of twenty-five. The soul will always return to—or, in some cases, if the person was very young, go straight to—its purest, healthiest form upon death. I know this.

But there is a hollow, weary look in the eyes of every passerby. It isn't supposed to be like this. It has never been like this. Souls are usually happy when they die and see how young and healthy they are again, and they know they'll be like this forever.

Emptiness and fear were not supposed to be a part of the deal. But then, I guess I never really knew what happened in the Beyond. This is a rare chance.

"Excuse me," I say, walking up to a woman who's sitting on a bench and reading a Russian newspaper. "What is the date?"

The woman looks startled, but then smiles. "The fourteenth."

"Valentine's Day," I blurt out immediately.

She tips her head. "Pardon me?"

"Oh, nothing," I reply. "Thank you!" I hurry back over to Arthur. Valentine's Day is not a holiday here, but it's also reassuring to know time isn't passing faster than it does on Earth. I realize that the flawed flow of time combined with complete isolation is the final and ultimate punishment of the Astral Plane, not the Beyond. Time is normal here, but it's obvious I have other things to be worried about.

"Now what?" Arthur asks when I return, kicking the snow with his boot.

"I don't know," I say honestly.

"Do you know where Alfred might be?" he asks.

"I think we should—"

"Over there! Those two over there!" I'm interrupted by a guard shouting; I realize they're coming after us. I'm scared, but not by the guards. They are little more than an annoyance. What I'm scared of is never being able to find my way home. While I am not on Earth, no one can die. My presence, whether I hand-kill a person or not, is what allows people to pass from life to death. When I am on the Spirit Trail, no one dies, but this does not matter because the passage of time on the Spirit Trail is so slow that I can spend what feels like hours there and only a few seconds will have passed on Earth. But the Beyond is different. Time is the same, and I have been gone for almost half a day.

The guards are on us before we can do anything, surrounding Arthur and me on all sides, holding up guns and shouting loudly. People stop and stare, whisper, back away in fear. I don't bother to fight.

There's nothing they can do to hurt me except keep me here.

* * *

Arthur and I are shoved into the back of a car. The city passes by us in a snowy, gray blur. I look up at the starry sky, at its ever-present night filled with blinding constellations and every shade of blue and purple, and wonder what Matthew is doing now.

Today is Valentine's Day.

I should be with him.

This is the only thing I am thinking as I stare up at the stars. I even make a on wish them.

All they do is stare back coldly, glinting in the Russian sky.

* * *

I believe that souls can die here. We are taken to a grand building in the middle of the city, which is the only part that differs from the Moscow of the 1940s. The buildings here are giant and towering, much more modern than anything else here. Inside the building, our case is explained to a few people in official-looking militaristic uniforms; they all are speaking in Russian, even people I know for a fact were not born in Russia and could not, during their life, speak Russian.

The weird thing is, they try to kill us. They shoot us. My face is held in a bucket of water for almost ten minutes straight. They even try to burn us at the stake. When nothing happens, the executioners are both fascinated and terrified.

Arthur and I are shoved into a small, empty holding room with bright white walls and a tiny window in the door. I hear snippets of a conversation as an executioner and a guard pass by the door.

"...should just report them to Braginsky."

_Braginsky? _

"Think they're Liebhabers?"

This catches my attention. _Liebhaber. _The word for _lover. _I'm not sure what is meant by this. Obviously no one here would believe that Arthur and I are lovers of any kind. But what, then, does the word mean here? It's German, too. Not Russian.

"Arthur? Can you try to do something for me?"

Arthur looks up. He's been sitting in one corner of the small room, examining his fingernails. He nods. "Sure. What?"

"I'm going to say some things in other languages. Can you repeat them for me?"

He looks incredulous, but he tries. I say a few simple sentences in English, German, French, Spanish, and Mandarin. He cannot repeat anything coherent. I try every language I can think of—Japanese, Dutch, Thai, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Italian—language after language, and nothing works. Not even Belarusian or Ukrainian.

People here can only speak in Russian. Except, of course, for me.

We do this for about an hour before the door to the waiting room is pulled open. Some of the stern-faced military people lead us down a few hallways, down a staircase or two, and through the vast building before we come to a basement level. The doors leading to the main hallway of the basement are blocked by two guards with giant machine guns.

"Liebhabers," one of our escorts says, waving a hand at Arthur and me. The guards nod and let us pass.

The hallway we step into is dark and narrow. The walls are made of solid gray bricks, and rooms line either side of the hallway.

I glance at the escort whose gun is trained against the small of my back. With a flicker of sadness, I read him. He is Danish, and his name is Mathias. I remember him. I hand-killed him. 1998. He was only twenty-five years old. When we walked down the Spirit Trail together, he asked me if he could tell me about the best moments of his short life. He asked me to hold onto these memories for him.

I try to think back. He told me about his first love. His high school graduation. The first time he saw his father cry.

"You went to the ocean," I say quietly, "and you would love to go underwater. You said you were looking for mermaids, but really you liked the way it felt like you had a whole world to yourself."

I hear the gun load. "What are you talking about?" Mathias demands harshly. Russian doesn't suit him. Though he does not know anything else now.

We finally come to the end of the hallway. "Here is where you will be staying," Mathias tells us, waving his gun at the door. "With the other Liebhabers."

"What's a—" Arthur begins, but is cut off by the other escorts shoving us through the door. I turn immediately, but the door clicks shut and I hear lock after lock slide into place. Escape will not be easy. I have to try hard not to cry out. I've never been this helpless before.

Instead, I turn to examine the room we've been placed in. It isn't small, like I was expecting. In fact, it basically looks like a luxury apartment. We're in the living room. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and though the walls are still made of gray brick, they've been covered in landscape paintings. The carpet is soft and springy under my feet. It is nothing like a prison. It looks like a loft apartment, actually.

I stare at the door, though, my back to the living room. Arthur takes a step forward, and I hear a girl immediately start screaming at him. "You useless idiots! You didn't even try fighting the guards? We could've all been out by now—" I turn to snap at her, and my eyes widen.

"Natalya Arlovskaya?"

Unlike anyone here so far, she recognizes me. Shock crosses her face, and she stops shouting at Arthur. "Death."

* * *

Ten minutes later, we're all sitting on the soft gray couches in the living room, cups of tea and hot chocolate and coffee clutched in our hands.

"So," Natalya Arlovskaya says, "how'd you two sorry asses end up here?" Well, at least my memory of her is correct. She is no kinder than the last time I met her, back in 1942. I like it, actually. Her disdain and sarcasm.

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. I glance around. There are, including Arthur and me, ten people in the room. The others are Natalya, Lili Zwingli, Lovino Vargas, Mei Xiao, Vladimir Lupei, Emil Steilsson, and Kiku Honda. I realize what a Liebhaber is.

_A Liebhaber is a Diamond._ All the people who defied Francis' arrows. With a hint of irony, I become aware of the fact that if Arthur had not thrown himself off the Spirit Trail, he would be here in this room anyway. Which, in my opinion, seems much nicer than the Astral Plane.

"Where is Jeanne?" I ask without thinking.

Lili tilts her head. "Who?"

I pause. "She's..." I explain to them Francis and his golden arrows and tell them that they're the only people who have managed to avoid the will of Love. Natalya deadpans, looking unimpressed, and says, "You act is if we don't know all of this already."

I clear my throat. "Well, then, Jeanne fell in love with Francis. She was a... Liebhaber like you all. When I took her down the Spirit Trail, she cried, and her teardrops made these flowers that I called Astral Roses. I drank the water from the Astral Roses, and they took me to the Astral Plane. Arthur and I broke through and came here to the Beyond."

Vladimir looks surprised. "There is such a place?"

"The Astral Plane?" Arthur speaks up for the first time. "Yes. It's miserable. Downright miserable."

"Can't be worse than here," Lovino replies flatly. _Lovino! _I think about Antonio. I wonder if—

Lili sighs deeply, looking down at her hot chocolate with sorrowful eyes. "Mr. Vargas is right. Sitting here, knowing all we know, watching Ivan make a mess of the world... I hate it."

Natalya's jaw tightens. "Ivan—"

I know this expression. I have seen it many times through the years. It is the expression of someone who is defending the person they love.

But wasn't it Natalya who hated Ivan and did not want to marry him? Didn't she kill herself just to be free of him?

"All you know?" Arthur leans forward from his spot on the couch, looking at Lili with curious eyes. "What do you know?"

Lili clears her throat and begins to speak, slowly and articulately. "My name is Lili Marie Zwingli. I was born in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1970. I had one sibling: an older brother named Vash. We had a puppy who came to our house as a stray when I was five." She looks at me. "I met you once. In the Swiss Alps." The only unnatural thing about her speech is that it is said entirely in Russian, which I know she did not know how to speak.

Arthur scoffs. "What's so impressive about that?"

It dawns on me. "Lili? You remember your life. You remember who you are." No one else here has done that. Everyone else here has been wiped clean. Berwald and Mathias and all those people I saw in the military uniforms speaking Russian; none of them could recall their life on Earth.

She smiles at me, sadness clouding her beautiful eyes. "I hate Russian. I hate this existence. I would give anything just to be able to speak in German again. Just to be able to leave this stupid prison." She pauses, her smile growing. "Or just to disappear."

"All of you remember your lives?" I ask, and when I'm met with nods, I say, "Why doesn't anyone else? And why can't you speak your first languages if you know this?"

Lovino slams his teacup down on the table, and it rattles in its saucer. "Because of fucking Ivan Braginsky, that bastard. It's because of him. He came here and took control of this ISF."

"Be quiet," Natalya commands, her voice icy and harsh. "I was the only one who was even here for that."

I turn to her. "Then why don't you tell me?"

"Fine," she says. "I will. Someone get me another cup of coffee..."


	17. The Saint

"Right here in this room," Natalya says, waving an arm, "you have the most feared people in the entire ISF."

"But—" Arthur begins.

Natalya cuts him off with a shake of her head. "No, Arthur, just listen. I came here in 1942. That was the year I died. The twentieth-century ISF was established, obviously, but it was very loose. I'm assuming you two don't know what an ISF is. Well, every hundred years, a new ISF is created. An Independent Sovereign Faction. The ISF you go to depends on your death date. Since my death date was in 1942, I came to the twentieth-century ISF."

I frown. "But... Vladimir, Emil, Kiku... you all died after 2000. Why aren't you in a twenty-first-century ISF?"

Vladimir laughs, but it's a humorless laugh. "That's the issue. For some reason, even though this ISF is only supposed to hold whose people whose death dates were anywhere between 1901 and 2000, now anyone who dies is coming here. A 21C ISF should have been created over a decade ago, but everyone's stuck in 20C."

"An ISF is not a terrible place to be," Natalya says quickly. "Not at all. It is only the twentieth-century ISF that is miserable. You see, these factions are not meant to separate dead people. In any other ISF, you are free to come and go and visit whoever you like, and traveling between factions is very easy and common. But Ivan Braginsky took control of this ISF and sealed it off completely, so everyone is forbidden to leave or enter the city. That's also why another faction for those who died in the twenty-first century has not been created yet. Because he's controlling everything here."

"He made this world in his image," Lili says. "This is a 1940s Russian city. A very large, sprawling one. He has also changed the way people here are wired. We can only speak Russian, and no one has memories of their life on Earth."

"Except for Liebhabers," Vladimir chimes in. "That's why we're so feared by Ivan. We're the only people in this whole ISF who know the truth. So he locked us away."

Natalya looks and Arthur and me. "Did they try to kill you two?"

I actually laugh. "Yeah."

Lovino nods. "That's accurate, of course. People here can die. But Liebhabers can't. It's how they test it."

"But how? I have never been here before," I say. "Without me, how can people die?"

"It's not death in the traditional sense," Mei cuts in quickly. "No one here grows old or contracts illnesses like cancer, so of course that isn't an option. The only way you can die here is if you are murdered or something like that."

"If you die here, you just vanish to No Man's Land," Vladimir continues, nodding solemnly. "And your body goes with you. We don't need graveyards here."

"What is No Man's Land?" Arthur asks.

"The... what did you say you called it?" Vladimir takes a drink of tea and clears his throat. "Wherever it was you came from. The Astral Plane."

"All right," Arthur says, crossing his arms. "So Ivan locked us all up because we know things he doesn't want everyone else to know. But even if people here haven't any of their memories, they still all seem very miserable. Why hasn't anyone rebelled against him yet?"

"Technology," Lili responds, looking wistful. "Did you happen to notice what kind of guns the guards who brought you here had?"

"They were AK-47s," Arthur says. He shrugs. "My dad was in the military."

"Right," Lovino says. "And the Kalashnikov rifle wasn't invented until 1947. That was the year _after _Ivan died. So how did such a thing end up here, in the world he created?"

I don't really like guns, but I understand what they're telling me. "You're talking about modern technology?"

Natalya nods. "Did you notice a few buildings around here are much more modern than all the others in the city? We're in the City Circle, which is the only area in the whole entire ISF where there is post-1946 technology. And all the officials and loyalists live in the City Circle, so only they have the most dangerous weapons..."

"And cell phones," Emil says.

"Modern cars."

"Post-1946 literature and science."

"And this apartment," Vladimir says. "I mean, look around. This is probably one of the most advanced, luxurious places in the entire ISF."

"Okay," Arthur says. "That makes sense. How did Ivan even manage to control this world in the first place?"

"He just started off as a charismatic, popular leader-type," Natalya says. "Once many people started to like him, he convinced them to vote him as a commander of sorts, even though there's no need for those kinds of people here. Anyway, he seized power and can now control things like language and memory. The only way to free the ISF and revert things back to their natural way is to destroy Ivan."

Lili smiles at me hopefully. "You and Mr. Kirkland must be a sign. This must be the time when Ivan is overthrown. The fact that Death himself is here with us has got to count for something."

I smile back. "I hope so."

But what I really hope is that I can go home. I know I am a terrible person for caring more about myself than billions of people, but my true wish is that I can follow the arrows and the pull of the universe back home, only so I can see Matthew again.

* * *

Natalya tells us she will come up with a plan. I sense that she is the leader here, and she seems to know the most about what is going on. She goes away to her bedroom, which is down one of the hallways of the apartment, and shuts the door. The rest of us drift off to do our own things while Natalya thinks. I find myself sitting at the kitchen table with Vladimir.

"Do you sleep?" I ask.

"No," he says.

It is awkward. Painfully awkward. I have always admired Vladimir. I admire his positive attitude about the terrible life he was given. Now, after being orphaned and homeless and abused and murdered, this is all he got in return. Confinement. I feel as if it is my fault. There is no light left in his eyes, and it makes me sick.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He stares at me for a moment. "It's all right," he says slowly, as if reciting a memorized script. "It isn't your fault."

"You deserve so much more than this."

"I wish this apartment were above ground so there could be windows," Vladimir finally says. "I wish I had fallen in love. Then this wouldn't be happening to me."

"Why is it that people who were able to overcome Love's arrows are also the people who are able to overcome Ivan?"

"Because love is the only thing strong enough to overcome death." He smiles ruefully. "I wouldn't know, though, and I don't suppose you do, either. I can't possibly imagine Death falling in love."

"I never wanted to," I say.

Vladimir blinks. "What?"

"I really didn't. But it happened."

Vladimir leans forward, concern flashing across his face. "What? What's this?"

I close my eyes. "I know, I know. It's bad, isn't it? I really need to get home to see him. I'm sorry."

I expect Vladimir to be angry that this is what my true desire is. Or disgusted, because some feel that way about people who fall in love with the same gender, not realizing that it's love and love's got absolutely nothing to do with that. Maybe I expected him to be happy that I was suffering. Instead, though, he pats my hand and says, "We'll get you home. We'll make everything right here, too."

"You are a very good person," I murmur. "Thank you." It's ironic because I know he was killed by some crazy religious fanatic who believed he was a demon, but I can, at this moment, almost imagine Vladimir standing with a halo and clasped prayer hands, venerated as a saint.

He wavers like he wants to ask me something, then just goes for it. "I've wondered since the first time I met you... do you believe that there is good in every person?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. "Absolutely yes. It's not like I believe humans are good and pure at heart or whatever. Human nature is greed and destruction. But there is good in everyone without a doubt. Why do you ask?"

He lowers his voice even though there's no one else within earshot. The closest people are Lovino and Emil, and they're in the other room, watching television. "The others get mad at me when I say things like this, but I think good can be found in everyone. I think good can be found in Ivan. I would rather try to find that than destroy him."

"I agree," I reply. "Let's see what we can do."

He nods. "One last thing. I'm sorry, but it's been decades since... I mean, well! I just wonder if it'd be too much trouble to ask you to speak Romanian for me."

I laugh. Vladimir is far too pure for all the tragedies that have happened upon him. I will do whatever he asks of me.


	18. Forgiveness

_I'm debating whether to continue this story. I have a plot; I'm just not sure what to do or if anyone's reading. Please let me know your thoughts._

* * *

I take a deep breath and knock on Natalya's door.

There is silence for a few moments, then I hear her voice from inside. "What do you need?"

"I need to talk to you," I reply. I wait for a response, studying the paintings hanging in the hallway. I think maybe Natalya isn't going to acknowledge me, but she finally opens the door and stands there, looking impatient. All the lights in her room are off except for a lamp on her nightstand, and I see that her room is luxurious and ornate, just like the rest of the apartment. A four-poster canopied bed and Persian carpet are illuminated by the soft light of the lamp. The only thing wrong with the room is that there aren't any windows.

There aren't windows anywhere.

"Well?" she demands.

I open my mouth to ask her whether it's possible that we can take Ivan out in a peaceful way—the way Vladimir would want—but something in the shadows of her room makes me falter. I start to walk inside, but she firmly places both hands on my chest and shoves me backwards. "What are you doing?" she snaps. "You're fucking creepy."

"What's that on your vanity?" I ask, too surprised to fight with her. Opposite to her bed, she's got a small, pretty white vanity with a few drawers and a matching chair. Some classic Russian paperbacks and a mug of pens and pencils sit on it, and next to that, a glass vase with roses in it. White roses that catch the dim lighting of her bedroom and sparkle like tiny diamonds.

She glances at me suspiciously. "Those roses? They just started growing a few months ago—" Natalya's eyes widen. "Wait. Didn't you tell us something about Astral Roses, or whatever it was you called them? The water brought you here?"

I step into her room, and this time, she doesn't protest. I walk over to the vase. "Yes, these are Astral Roses. I thought they only came from Jeanne's tears."

"Death," Natalya says slowly, "when did Jeanne die?"

My skin prickles. "A couple of months ago. Last year, before the holidays."

"Jeanne never came here," Natalya says, echoing my own thoughts. "But she's certainly dead. Did she jump into No Man's Land?"

"No."

Natalya and I, we realize the same thing at the same exact time. The Astral Roses. They're Jeanne. And they're my way to get back home._  
_

"Drink," Natalya says. "Go ahead. Drink."

"I'll come back, I promise," I tell her, picking up a rose and cupping it in the palms of my hands.

"I don't believe in promises," Natalya replies icily. "Do what's necessary."

I give her a curt nod, then I raise the petals of the blossom to my mouth. I tilt the flower back and glittering Rose Water trickles down to my lips.

* * *

Something cold is pressed against my back.

I cough and shift slightly, and in that moment, I can feel thousands and thousands of people die. All the people who were supposed to die while I was in the Astral Plane and Beyond pass away, released from life now that my presence has returned to earth. Thankfully, I wasn't gone for any longer—this is not such a big deal. Had I been gone a week, now, we would've have had a problem...

I realize I am lying on my kitchen floor, splayed across the cool tiles of my house. I stand up, drag myself to the sink, and splash my face with water. I look out the kitchen window. Snow coats the ground, but sunlight streams into the room, bathing my face. The sun; radiant, beautiful sunlight. I close my eyes and let its gentle warmth wash over me. No more perpetual blinding stars and constellations and icy purple skies: I am happy to see the sun.

The date is February 15th.

My phone, which I left sitting on the kitchen table, lights up. I have dozens and dozens of missed calls: Francis, Antonio, Matthew—

"Dammit," I mutter. I type a quick text to Francis and Antonio—_I'm so sorry, something happened. I'm okay. I will talk to you in just a_ _minute_—then I dial Matthew's number. He picks up on the third ring, and I catch my breath, wondering what he's going to say.

"Death."

_Shit, _I think, _shit, he didn't call me by my casual name. _"Matthew, I was never trying to—"

"Stop talking right now. Can you come to see me?" he interrupts.

"Of course," I say, my unease rising. He sounds completely emotionless. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the hospital," he says. The unease turns to sickened terror. Something is not right.

"I'll be right there."

* * *

I walk right into the hospital nearest to Matthew's home in Philadelphia, past waiting rooms of people and countless hallways filled with medical machinery that won't do anyone any good if my mind is set on someone's death, until I find the room the receptionist told me Matthew was in. It's dark and quiet, and the television is on but muted, casting a soft light on the room. The time here is six in the morning.

I see Matthew and stop. He's wrapped in a blanket, but I have a good view of his face. There's a bandage over the bridge of his nose and I know immediately that it's broken. He isn't wearing his glasses, and his sleep-tousled hair is messy and tangled. His left arm is in a cast.

"What happened?" I choke out, still standing the doorway.

He laughs, then grimaces and coughs, shaking his head slowly. I know that action very well. My guess is that he's broken a rib or two as well, and I feel nauseated. I rush to his side, reach for his good hand. He swats it away, and I catch my breath. His seriously pissed. I can feel anger radiating off him like heat, and his eyes are cold and irritated. "Matthew, Matthew..."

"Where the hell were you?" he snaps, and I recoil. I know my timing was not very good, but surely he cannot be this upset that I missed a day or two.

"How did you end up in the hospital?" I demand, gesturing at his current state.

"You should ask Toni about that," someone behind me says. I whirl around to see Francis leaning against the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. "Here, Matthew. Hazelnut, extra cream, no sugar. What you wanted?"

"Thank you," Matthew says, allowing Francis to shove past me and hand Matthew his coffee. My jaw drops. "What—"

Francis' eyes meet mine. He, of course, looks cool and collected, but his eyes hold a sense of urgency I rarely see. "Gilbert, talk to me in the hallway for a moment, would you?"

I glance over at Matthew, who nods. I follow Francis into the hallway. A nurse hurries past us, smiling, and we switch out of human form so it won't look like we're lingering around for no reason.

"First of all, tell me where you were," Francis says.

So I do. I tell him about the Astral Roses and the Soviet takeover in the Beyond. I tell him about Arthur Kirkland and the Liebhabers, about Natalya and Ivan and No Man's Land and Vladimir. I ask Francis if he remembers Vladimir. A trace of sadness flits through Francis' blue eyes, and he says he does. Of course he does.

"So what happened to Matthew?" I ask once I've finished explaining all I can.

"Antonio and I noticed you were gone pretty quickly," Francis replies. "I mean, you're always off on the Spirit Trail, but time goes so slowly there it's not anything ever happens here while you're gone. This time, though, it was weird. No one was dying. We tried calling you. We couldn't locate you."

"I didn't know how to get back," I admit.

"I suggested visiting Matthew," Francis continues. "I just told Antonio he was a friend of yours. Antonio seemed convinced Matthew knew where you were and he was just refusing to tell us, and things got out of hand. Antonio's off. He's distraught that he lost control did something like this."

I'm not angry, but I'm not happy. I'm not sure what I feel. "You told Antonio that Matthew was a friend of mine?"

"That's what I said, but I think Antonio suspected..." Francis inhales deeply and takes both of my hands in his. "Gilbert, I am very sorry. I see what I did was wrong; it was very wrong. And when you were gone, Antonio and I were so scared. I thought about you not coming back, and I was sick." He smiles ruefully. "I know this wasn't the first time we fought and it won't be the last, but you're my friend, okay?"

I shake his hands off mine. His eyes widen and he looks terrified and hurt, but before he can say anything, I pull him into a hug. "I forgive you," I say.

Francis' face lights up. "Thank you, Gilbert. Now, we've got a lot of work to do! I need to go comfort Antonio, and you need to get back into Matthew's good graces!"

I groan. "Is that possible?"

Francis looks amused. "You must underestimate the forces of attraction, Gil. Of course it's possible. That boy..."

"That boy?" I prompt.

A soft smile graces Francis' lips. "That boy is in love with you, after all." He laughs. "Go talk to him, Gilbert. I promise it'll be okay."


	19. Life and His Love

_I'd like to sincerely thank everyone for the overwhelming amount of support I received on this story! It really means a lot to me. Here's the next chapter, and I'll keep them coming! Thank you!  
_

* * *

Francis leaves to go console Antonio and I switch back to human form, ducking into Matthew's room. I need to think of something to say that is a good mix of an apology, an explanation, and an atonement for my absence, and I have all of two seconds to do it. I sit down in the chair in the corner of the room, trying not to tap my foot nervously while Matthew looks at me, saying nothing.

"I'm sorry," I finally say. I want to kick myself. What kind of bullshit apology is that? "I really am."

"I know," he says. "I know you're sorry. I do. Just remember, Gilbert, I'm lying in a hospital bed and it's rather painful to move, and I'm not really what you'd call _overjoyed."_ Matthew sighs, and his voice softens a degree. "I'm happy to see you, you know. I'm just not in a stellar mood right now."

"I wouldn't really blame you if you were mad for the next year."

Matthew's eyes glint. "Year? Oh, no, Beilschmidt, I was thinking along the lines of the next _century." _He sounds serious, but his mouth is ticked up in a smile, and I know he isn't really completely mad at me.

"Can I tell you where I was, at least?" I ask.

He hesitates. "Don't."

"You don't want an explanation?" I'm surprised. When I first met him, he was so adamant to learn everything about me and Alfred and the whole business of the dead, so I wonder what exactly has caused a shift in his curious nature.

Matthew shakes his head. "No. Not right now. Not while I'm like this; I'm too tired. Oh, you'd better believe I want to know everything. Just not this second. Oh, and if it's not too much trouble..."

"What?" I exclaim, sitting up straighter. "Name it and I'll do it. Anything."

"Will you stay with me? Not as Death. As Gilbert."

It is this sentence, this tiny little thing, that, to my surprise, almost destroys me. I am not prepared for the stabbing pain I feel in my heart, and I tense up. Why, why, why did this have to happen like this? Matthew was only asking a small favor of me; he wanted me to stay with him and keep him company because he loves me. But this is not entirely true. He loves Gilbert Beilschmidt, not Death. No human would fall in love with Death. I was never even supposed to fall in love. None of this was _ever _supposed to have happened, and it wouldn't have if it weren't for Jeanne.

I am reminded again of the fragility and temporality of this love. That no matter how hard I fight it, a day will eventually come where Matthew must die. This is a fate that cannot be avoided, and I of all people know it. This love was supposed to be a punishment, a revenge. Somehow I'd managed to forget. My throat is closing up. I rush over to his bed and grab his right hand in mine. "I have to tell you something," I choke out. I did not know that it would be this painful.

He is an ocean and I've barely broken the surface. I need air. It already it hurts.

"What is it?" he says, eyes widening in surprise. "Are you okay?"

"I am in love with you," I whisper, kneeling on the cool tile floor next to his bed. I place my head in the crook of his shoulder, my mouth touching his ear. He shivers. "I know I've said this before, but I won't ever be able to tell you enough. I am so, so in love with you, Matthew. I don't think you understand. I sure don't. I can't stop thinking about you. I am very aware that you are smart enough to recognize that this was not really supposed to happen. I don't know what to do."

Matthew has stopped breathing. I think a lot of times when humans are presented with a situation beyond their imagination or expectations, they always seem to forget to breathe.

"Please say something," I murmur, pulling my head up and looking him in the face. To my dismay, tears are brimming in the corners of his dark violet eyes.

"You said you didn't know what to do," he says. "Neither do I. You know I love you. Look where that's gotten me." He glances around the hospital room, shakes his head, and looks back at me. "It's not your fault. None of this is. But you can't act like you're the only one who's thought about the future. One day, I am going to die. And you won't. Gilbert, you're Death. You're immor—"

"Don't," I say, staring at him pleadingly.

Matthew smiles ruefully. "I don't think we should have fallen in love, Gilbert."

"It's not like that sort of thing can be helped." I close my eyes, exhausted and exhilarated and inspired and filled with dread all at once. "I'm sorry for making your youth difficult."

Matthew lets go of my hand and grabs the collar of my shirt, pulling me forward.

"Stay with me, Death," he murmurs into my ear.

Just like that, I'm a goner.

* * *

Two in the morning in Paris. An occasional car rumbles by and I see a few lone stragglers on the stone sidewalks. There are some twenty-four hour coffeehouses and convenience stores open, but most of the shopfronts are closed for the darkest hours of the night.

Francis told me Antonio was in his apartment, and asked if I would mind waiting outside. I slip my phone into my pocket and sit down on a bench outside of Francis' apartment, counting the streetlights dotting my vision.

"Gilbert."

I don't look up. Antonio sits down next to me, reaches for my hand. I take it. We don't say anything, just sit in silence as a few snowflakes tumble down from the ink-colored sky. I move into Antonio, rest my head in on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispers.

I think about how many times I have heard those two words together in the past few days.

"I understand," I say. He is, after all, my best and oldest friend, one of the three people I have loved in my entire life (him, platonically; Matthew, romantically; Ludwig, as a family member), and I know how awful he feels about this. I have never seen him hurt someone, so he must have been very, very upset. Upset over _me._

He moves away from me, pulls a battered yellow document folder out of his bag. He hands it to me.

"What is this?" I ask.

Antonio's jaw clenches. "I know it's difficult—no. Listen, Gilbert. What you have with Matthew—"

"There isn't anything—"

"Don't lie to me." Antonio speaks with soft insistence. I run my finger along the edge of the folder as he continues. His eyes are illuminated in the streetlight and he's poised like he's about to make a speech, but at the last second, he gives a minute shake of his head and stands up, brushing snow off his coat. "Read through what's in that envelope. I'm tired of pretending it never happened. What else can I say? Contact me soon." He kisses my forehead and vanishes.

* * *

Matthew has been released from the hospital. We are in his room, him on his bed and me on the rug. There is a vase of carnations sitting on Matthew's desk, and I know that Antonio must have dropped them off. I think Matthew and Antonio are getting along okay, but I've never been present while both of them are interacting with each other.

"Should I open this now?" I say, staring down at Antonio's folder. I've had it for more than a day now, but for some reason, I am very hesitant to open it. Matthew, startled, closes his history textbook and frowns. "What is that?"

"It's something Antonio gave me."

Matthew shrugs. "Sure. Do it."

The first thing I pull out of the envelope is a picture of Lovino Vargas. It is old—from the forties, according to a date scribbled on the back—and Matthew, who is looking over my shoulder, asks me who it is. I tell him that I think this is the man Antonio was in love with.

This seems to make Matthew sad. "Do you all have tragic love stories?" He means it as a joke, but I know he feels sorry.

"Don't worry about it," I reassure him. A journal entry from Antonio is the next thing to emerge from the folder. It's dated January 9th, 1952.

I remember that day very clearly. That was the day I told Antonio that Lovino would be dying later in the year.

Matthew is looking at another scrap of paper. Chemical formulas and equations are scribbled onto it, notes crammed in the margins. "What do these say?" Matthew asks, pointing at the Spanish scrawl.

I take the paper from him, rubbing my forehead. "This is the year he was looking for the key to immortality."

Matthew looks disgusted. "This is terrible, Gilbert. What kind of person is Francis? How could he do this to both of you?"

"Francis never made Antonio fall in love. He did so on his own accord." I sift through the aged journal entries and letters. "I never knew... I mean, I thought Antonio just had a weird obsession with Lovino, but they really..."

"They loved each other," Matthew agrees, looking at another picture. They're standing together. Antonio is beaming; Lovino looks pleased. "This is sad," Matthew says. "How old was Lovino when he died?"

"Twenty-two," I say.

"Okay." Matthew stares at the picture. "Has Francis ever been in love?"

"Yes," I reply slowly, not liking where this conversation seems to be going.

"And how old was his love when they died?"

"Twenty-five."

"And me, how old am I going to be when—"

"No," I snap. "Don't ask me that."

Matthew sighs and falls back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Sometimes I wish I could make it stop."

"Make what stop?"

"Time."

"Me too. Let's go for a walk."

"Good idea."


	20. 7:53

We stop at the same café we did on Christmas. I get a hot chocolate and Matthew gets a coffee, and once again, we take it to the streets, wandering or way through the downtown. I think about Natalya and the other Liebhabers. I promised I would go back, but I can't. Not yet. Things are still too precarious here. I think about what she told me when I swore I would return to the Beyond.

_I don't believe in promises. Do what's necessary._

That makes me shiver. And, suddenly, I want so badly to make her believe in promises again. What a terrible life she got, too. I have never considered myself a particularly good person, at least not in the way, say, Vladimir is, but here we are: I've fallen in love; I've seen the Beyond; and I want to _help _people. As Death, this should not happen. Contrary to human thought, it is essential to the balance of the universe that I stay strictly neutral. My conscience can never stray off a moral path; I can never be too vengeful or spiteful. But I also cannot allow myself to become too good.

Matthew notices the facial expression I'm pulling. "What's the matter?"

I shake my head. "No. It has to do with... earlier."

"Earlier? Oh." Matthew eyes an unoccupied bench nearby. "You can tell me if you want."

We brush the snow away and sit. I tell Matthew everything. He listens and watches my face with soft concentration, taking a sip of his drink every so often. He doesn't interrupt, with the exception of a few questions, and when I finish, he sits there for a moment, processing.

"Okay," he finally says.

"Okay?" I repeat.

"Aren't you going to go back?"

"Not yet," I reply. "No, right now, I want to spend time with you."

Matthew smiles. "I'm glad. I want to spend time with you, too. But, Gilbert, don't you understand? You have to fix whatever's going on there. Since there aren't any new ISFs being created, everyone—_everyone_—who dies is facing a certain oppressed eternity."

I crush my Styrofoam hot chocolate cup in my hand and toss it into a trash can sitting next to the bench. "I know. I _am _going to go back, you know. I made a promise. I just can't right now."

Matthew smiles. "Well, then that's settled. So you're gonna be staying in the land of the living for a while, right?"

"As always. The land of the living." I sigh. "You know, I never particularly wished to be a human, but since I met you, I keep wondering what it'd be like."

"Come to school with me tomorrow."

"Why?" I ask. I mean, I've done it many times before and I'd be more than happy to do it again—it's fun; we pass notes and goof around, and it's the closest thing I've ever gotten to having a normal human experience—but I wasn't expecting him to request that.

He gives me a smirk. "You said you wonder what it would be like, right? To be human. Meet me at school before first period tomorrow." He stands up, and there's a slight mischievous twinkle in his eyes that I wouldn't expect to fit him, but in that moment, it looks totally normal. Affection washes over me. "I have to go," he says. He kisses my forehead, tosses his cup into the trash, and waves goodbye.

I wave back.

I smile to myself, watching him walk away, melting into the crowd until I can't see him at all. In the warm afterglow of talking to him, I am perfectly happy and content, but that pleasant feeling is torn away from me in less than a second when something enters my mind that I cannot push away.

A date. Matthew's death date.

It's tomorrow.

* * *

My eyes keep darting to the clock over Francis' stove as I pace his kitchen frantically, my bare feet echoing loudly on the tile floor. Antonio and Francis are sitting at the granite-topped kitchen island, a mixture of sympathy and remorseful resolution in both their eyes.

"Gilbert," Francis finally says, his voice gentle, "please, sit."

"I can't," I say, walking to the window, turning, and walking back to the kitchen island. I called Francis immediately after Matthew left me, and he told me to come over. Antonio showed up, too, looking scared and grim and empathetic all at once. "I really can't."

There is a long silence in which the only noise is my footsteps pacing the perimeter of the kitchen.

Finally, Francis cuts in. "You know, Gilbert, if you don't want him to die, he won't."

I look at him, hopelessly pleading, pleadingly hopeless. "He has to die, Francis. If he doesn't, I'm a hypocrite. And dying is a part of life, as I always say."

Francis and Antonio look floored.

"What?" I ask, finally stopping my pacing and staring at them. "What is it?"

"Ah, Gilbert..." Antonio smiles weakly. "You are much better than either of us, you realize? I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. Don't. It's pointless. I can stop it. I know this. But I'm not going to." My words are becoming faster, automatic. "This is just how it has to be, okay? The whole thing—all of this love—was just supposed to punish me, you know? And it's okay. It is." _It's not. _

Francis looks like he might cry. I'm not angry with him anymore, but I know he thinks I am. "Gilbert, I'm so... do you know how?" He stares into his milky coffee then places it slowly on his saucer. He's shaking so hard that it rattles.

I swallow hard. Physical pain is not a problem for me. Emotional pain certainly is. It takes me a long time to speak, and when I finally do, my voice cracks. "Car crash."

Francis winces. This is the same way Jeanne died.

Antonio's eyes widen. "No."

_"Yes,"_ I say hollowly.

"No, I mean—" Antonio shakes his head, closes his eyes. "Lovino died like that, too. Lovino and Jeanne and Matthew... it can't all happen like this. This isn't right."

I didn't hand-kill Lovino. I just know that it was on October 17th of 1952. "I thought he died in the mafia."

"It was debt. He was in the car with a higher-up who was in debt. So the bastard drove the car off a cliff. Lovino got killed in his suicide."

This is some sick, twisted design of fate. Even though humans seem to think that we—Love, Life, and Death—are fate, we aren't. We're all players in this game, we just normally have nothing to lose, which frees us to a point where we are almost equal to fate. Now I feel heavy and empty at the same time.

I can hear the pain in Antonio's voice, and so can Francis. Francis' face is ghostly white, and he's returned to staring into his coffee cup, blue eyes someplace distant and far away. I know he feels awful. He feels the way I must after a big war, when everyone starts pointing fingers at me.

A few weeks ago, I would have enjoyed this. I would have been happy that he felt terrible, that he was suffering. Now I don't. I walk over to him, pat him stiffly on the shoulder, and excuse myself.

* * *

The next morning, Matthew texts me.

_You at school yet?_

I am. I am not in human form, so that no one will wonder why a strange man is loitering around a high school, but I am definitely here. His text brings tears to my eyes. I want to be with him right now, because I will never see him alive again. Ever. But I also know that if I show up where he is, he will want to go wherever I go, and I am not strong enough to lead him to his death. I can carry it out, I can take him to the Beyond, but I cannot direct him to the car crash. He must do that himself.

I type back one word.

_Yes._

He is supposed to die in forty minutes. When he doesn't reply in five, I instinctively know the message I just sent was probably the last one from me he will ever see.

I think about the crash. I think about his funeral, the phone call to his parents. They will have lost both of their sons. I think about leading him to the Beyond. Oh God, I can't take him there. I can't let him—

I take a deep breath and sit down, pulling out my phone in vain hope that there might be another text.

Nothing.

Nothing.

There's nothing except the time flashing on my screen, 7:22 AM.

7:53. He is going to die at 7:53.

A sense of terror turns my blood to ice. There are times when I am glad I have a perfect memory, and there are times when I do not.

Jeanne died at 7:53 PM.

I go back through my mental calendar. Since I did not hand-kill Lovino Vargas, I didn't know how he died until Antonio told me, but I do have the statistics of his death stored deep in my memory.

7:53.

Lovino died at 7:53 PM.

I slip into the school, rush down the halls, and burst into the nearest restroom. I hardly recognize my own reflection; it looks so pale and crazed, the face of a lost man. I may be a lost man.

Except I'm not. I have a destination. At 7:53, I will be at that crash. Matthew will see me, and he will understand. I will hug him. His soul, I mean. I will take him to the Beyond. And then, because he is not a Liebhaber, he will be just like every other person in the Beyond: dazed, Russian-speaking, no memories of his life. After that, I will never see him again.

My heart doesn't ache. It fucking shatters. He won't reunite with his grandfather. He won't reunite with Alfred. He won't know either of them, or his parents, or me.

And suddenly I'm so angry, so terribly angry and sad and broken. I don't understand why this has to happen.

It is 7:49. I cannot spend any more time here, wondering about these things. Besides, I will have the rest of eternity to do that, to brood over this. So for now, I stop. I take a breath. I grab my dagger. My mind is telling me exactly where the car crash is going to happen.

I follow the directions it's giving me, clutching my dagger. At 7:50, I arrive at the intersection where the crash is going to happen.

I stand in the middle of the street and I wait.


End file.
